Ex Machina II
by JBean210
Summary: What would happen if someone gave Harry a chance to learn magic BEFORE he attended Hogwarts? Would he be better prepared to face Voldemort, or would the power go to his head, making him arrogant and careless? A continuation of the story Ex Machina.
1. A Bundle of Freaky Joy

**Author's Note: This story continues James Monroe's interactions in the life of Harry Potter. In Ex Machina II, James enters a universe just after Voldemort has killed James and Lily Potter, and Dumbledore has left the infant Harry with the Dursleys. In an effort to give Harry a chance to be a better wizard, James visits Vernon and Petunia, making them an offer they won't refuse.**

Ex Machina II

**Chapter 1 – A Bundle of Freaky Joy**

A tall, thin, white-haired man appeared on the corner of Privet Drive, a few houses from where I was sitting. Nearby, in front of number 4, a tabby cat with square markings around its eyes sat stiffly on a garden wall, waiting. As the man appeared, the cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed. The cat, I knew, was Professor Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The white-haired man was the headmaster of the school, Professor Albus Dumbledore. Neither of them normally had any business in a quiet neighborhood in a small town in Surrey, England, such as this; but then, neither did I, really.

I watched as Dumbledore took what looked like a silver cigarette lighter from an inside pocket of his robes. Holding it in the air, he flipped it open and clicked it once. Instead of it lighting, however, a nearby street lamp went out with a small popping sound. Dumbledore clicked the device eleven more times, until all the nearby street lamps had gone out and Privet Drive was dark. The cat remained where it was, watching him steadily as he approached the garden wall and sat down next to it. Neither of them had noticed me, but I was invisible and shielded from any detection spell either of them might have cast. I sat on the steps of number 4 and listened to their conversation. Though they had obviously known each other a long time, you could hardly tell from listening to them talk, they spoke so formally at first.

It was late in the evening of November 1, 1981, and I already knew what Dumbledore was just now telling McGonagall: that James and Lily Potter were dead, but their infant son Harry was still alive. He had somehow survived a Killing Curse from Lord Voldemort, the Dark wizard who had been terrorizing the Wizarding community in Britain for almost eleven years now. Unspoken in their conversation were the sacrifices many witches and wizards who opposed Voldemort had endured, and the many deaths that had occurred during the dark decade of the 1970's, as Voldemort slowly built power and increased the ranks of his followers, the "Death Eaters."

Much had happened in the past two days; I wondered how much of it Dumbledore already knew, but hadn't informed McGonagall about. Peter Pettigrew, the Secret Keeper of the Fidelius Charm that concealed the location of James and Lily Potter, had betrayed them to his master, Lord Voldemort, who'd traveled to Godric's Hollow and attacked them. He'd killed James Potter, then warned Lily to step aside and allow him to kill their son, Harry. Lily refused and Voldemort killed her as well, though as she died she invoked an ancient magical bond, melding her life to Harry's, so that her death created an impenetrable magical protection within him against the person who had taken her life. When Voldemort cast the Killing Curse against Harry, it rebounded from this impenetrable charm, destroying the Dark Lord's body and rending his already tattered soul, leaving a small bit of it affixed to the point of impact of his curse and creating an unusual scar. Voldemort, in agony and unable to comprehend what had happened to him, fled the country, while Harry was left alone in the shattered house, hidden from Muggles and wizards alike: Muggles were unable to see the magically hidden home, and wizards could not locate the house due to the Fidelius Charm. It was fortunate, then, that Rubeus Hagrid, a longtime friend of both Lily and James, had been told beforehand by Pettigrew the location of the Fidelius Charmed-home.

Rubeus Hagrid, on orders from Dumbledore, had borrowed Sirius Black's motorcycle in order to transport the child from Godric's Hollow to Privet Drive, where Harry's only living relatives, the Dursleys, resided. Dumbledore may also have hoped that, without transportation, Sirius would have difficulty in locating Peter, once he'd worked out that Pettigrew must have betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort. But Sirius found Pettigrew anyway, confronting him in a London street, where Pettigrew cast a spell that blew up a section of the road between them, killing twelve innocent bystanders in the process. It seems Peter had done something to Sirius as well, perhaps Confunding him, since Sirius denied nothing when blamed for Pettigrew's death and the death of the twelve Muggles, and was taken into Wizarding custody and sentenced to life in Azkaban prison.

Now, as Dumbledore finished his meager explanation of what had happened, and laid out his plans for Harry to stay with the Dursleys, we heard the low rumble of a motorcycle engine; not, as one might expect, from the nearby street, but from the air above us. Looking up, we saw a large motorcycle drop out of the sky, landing on the road in front of number 4, and the even larger man, whom I knew was Hagrid himself, sitting upon it, a bundle of blankets held in one muscular arm.

As I watched, invisible, Dumbledore took the child from Hagrid and brought it to the Dursley doorstep, placing him there and putting a letter in an envelope inside the blankets with him. I followed them as they walked back to the curb, Hagrid crying into his tablecloth-sized handkerchief, McGonagall sniffling and blinking furiously, and Dumbledore looking very subdued and downcast. Hagrid muttered something about taking the motorcycle back to Sirius Black, then got on it and shot into the air. Leaving McGonagall blowing her nose at the curb, Dumbledore returned to the corner of Privet Drive, where he removed the silver lighter from his pocket and returned the street lamps to their former brilliance, then muttered a farewell to Harry and turned on his heel, Disapparating on the spot.

As things stood now, this situation was unacceptable. The way things originally went for Harry, he spent a decade living as a Muggle in Surrey, completely unaware of his history, the prophecy about him, or Voldemort. His aunt and uncle treated him horribly, neglecting him to the point of abuse, and he was mostly friendless in school due to the other children being afraid of befriending him; Dudley and his gang, who bullied Harry and anyone around him, saw to that. He also had no idea of the plans Dumbledore had for him, and while some considered Dumbledore to be as abusive as the Dursleys, in his own way, I thought that his primary failure with Harry was not to give Harry enough credit for his own intelligence, nor to give him the chance to develop it. Harry's parents, James Potter and Lily Evans, were two of the brightest wizards of their day at Hogwarts; yet Dumbledore made no effort to cultivate that intelligence in Harry. That was a mistake I planned not to repeat.

The first thing I had decided to do was talk to the Dursleys shortly after they found Harry, and give them some reasons to help Harry grow up in a more nurturing, caring environment. These reasons, I suspected, would be based on greed, self-interest, and obsessive nosiness. But then, that was what the Dursleys were all about.

***

The next morning, November 2, began much like the day before had — dull, gray and cloudy. Vernon Dursley got ready for work, as usual, while Petunia wrestled a screaming Dudley over his morning cereal and bombarded Vernon with the latest gossip from the day before.

Before leaving for work, Vernon glanced out the front window, checking the garden wall for any sign of the strange tabby cat that had been sitting there yesterday as he left for work. There was no sign of it, however, and Vernon whistled happily as he put on his second most boring tie (he had picked up the one he'd worn yesterday, but remembering all the strange things that had happened, had replaced it on his tie rack and chosen another one). Today, he was determined, would be a regular, boring day.

Pecking Petunia on the cheek, he turned to give Dudley one as well, but instead received a spoonful of cereal across his cheek as Dudley screamed and flung his cereal about. "Little tyke," he managed to laugh, wiping the cereal off his face, then grabbing his briefcase and heading for the door.

However, Dursley managed less than a step before he froze, horrified, at what he nearly trod on: a child in a bundle of blankets. On _his_ front doorstep! "Petunia," he muttered weakly, then again, more loudly: "_Petunia_!"

"What's the matter, Vernon?" his wife asked, hurrying to the front door. "What are you — oh, my lord!" She pointed at the bundle under Vernon's hovering foot. "What is _that_?" she hissed.

"I was going to ask _you_ that!" Vernon said, pulling his foot back and stepping away from the door. "What's it _doing_ there on our doorstep?"

"_I _don't know!" Petunia snapped, looking at the child as if it were an impertinent stain on her kitchen floor. "What should we do, Vernon?!"

"Get it inside, before someone notices and starts asking questions!" Vernon said, shakily, and Petunia reached down, gingerly, pulling the bundle by a corner until it was far enough inside for her to quickly shut the door.

Standing outside on the front steps, still invisible, I watched the door of number 4 slam shut. I glanced around, checking to see if anyone had been watching, but it was still early, and Mrs. Next Door and Mr. Busybody, the Dursleys' neighbors, weren't up yet. Passing ghostlike through the door, I watched as the Dursleys dragged the bundle containing Harry into the front room, then stood staring at each other, confused and upset.

"What were they thinking?" Vernon said distractedly, pacing back and forth between the front door and Petunia, who'd bent over and was looking through blankets swaddling Harry. "Why would someone just _leave_ a ruddy child on our doorstep? Aren't there places for this sort of thing? Now we'll have to call the authorities, get them involved in this — bloody nuisance, what will the neighbors think —"

"Oh, dear," Petunia said softly. She'd found and opened the envelope from Dumbledore and was reading the letter inside, her expression pale.

"What is it?" Vernon asked. "Where did you get that?" he asked, pointing at the letter in her hand. At the look on her face the vein in his forehead had begun to throb, turning purple.

"It's a letter —" Petunia began.

"I can _see_ that, Petunia! Who's it _from_?!"

"It's — it's from the — the headmaster of the school Lily went to," Petunia stammered.

"What — that ruddy _freak_ school?" Vernon snarled. "What's that school got to do with this — this child?"

Petunia was staring at the letter, her eyes widening with shock and surprise as she read. "Vernon," she gasped. "This is her son — it's _Harry Potter_!"

"Harry Potter!" Vernon repeated. "I heard someone mention his name, yesterday," he muttered. "A little freak, just like his parents. What's he doing _here_?" he snarled, looking at the small, black-haired child for the first time. He started, then looked closer — on the boy's forehead was an odd mark, like a scar, in the shape of a lightning bolt. "What's that on his head?"

But Petunia reached out, grabbing Vernon's arm so tightly that he looked at her in shock. "Vernon — listen!" she said urgently, then read:

* * *

_1 November 1981  
My Dearest Petunia,_

_I trust this letter finds you well. It has been some time since our last correspondence, and I hope there are no unpleasant feelings held over from my inability to allow you to attend Hogwarts with your sister, Lily._

_Unfortunately, the situation we find ourselves in today is much more grave and troubling than educational eligibility. Your sister and her husband have become the victims of a dreadful attack by an individual calling himself Lord Voldemort — an attack that has left them both, tragically, deceased._

_Their son, Harry, whom you have no doubt by this time found among these blankets at your front door, was able to survive an attack by this Voldemort due to the selfless sacrifice of your sister, who gave up her life to protect her son. His attacker has left England, his power broken, perhaps forever._

_However, this leaves young Harry in the unenviable position of being parentless at a time when he requires much care, not the adulation and praise of our Wizarding community, who will certainly see him as a hero and will place him, needlessly, in the spotlight for years to come. It is my wish that Harry's life be as normal as possible, and to this end I request that you look after him in your home as if he were your own child, not as a hero of the Wizarding World._

_I have another reason for asking this of you, Petunia — as his mother's sister, I have extended the magical protection his mother's blood sacrifice has given him to you, so that as long as he can call your home his as well, that protection will continue until he reaches his majority._

_When the time is ripe, I will contact you once again, in order to give Harry the opportunity to return to the Wizarding world and to his destiny in our community. With utmost gratitude for your understanding and cooperation._

_Your servant,_

_**Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore**_

* * *

Petunia looked up from the letter. Vernon was eyeing her with a combination of confusion and annoyance. "What the ruddy hell does all that mean?" he snorted. "It sounds like he's dropped off your sister's whelp at our door, expecting us to shoulder the burden for him!"

"Vernon —" Petunia began, but Vernon, his face growing more and more purple by the moment, cut her off angrily.

"Nah-ah! None of that, Petunia!" he growled, wagging a beefy finger in her face. "I don't want to hear anything about 'she's my sister' or 'he's my nephew'! You've never had a good word to say about _any_ of them before this — I don't expect you to go soft on me now, just because they've had a bit of hard luck!"

"But, they're _dead_, Vernon —"

"And whose fault is that?" Vernon blustered. "Not mine, I should say! And not yours, either! You've got to look at the big picture here," he pointed out. "We've got Dudley to think about!"

Petunia looked into the kitchen, where their son was busy flinging cereal over everything in sight. It would take her the rest of the morning to get things cleaned up again, she knew. Petunia looked back at her husband, her horsey face filled with indecision. "Of course I agree, dear — but…"

"What else is there to think about, then?" Vernon pressed, sensing he had the upper hand now. "Nothing is as important as our Duddykins, Petunia!"

"No, of course not…" she trailed off, looking at Harry in the bundle of blankets. Her expression was unsure, conflicted — I imagined that her mother's instinct was fighting against what Vernon wanted her to do, which was, in effect, to ignore Dumbledore's wishes and hand Harry over to the authorities or to an orphanage. She had no way of knowing, of course, that doing to would create another point of similarity between Harry and Voldemort, who grew up in an orphanage after his mother Merope gave birth to him in one, somewhere in London.

"It's settled, then," Vernon announced, not giving his wife a chance to reconsider. He shot a look at Harry that clearly indicated the sooner the boy was out of the house, the better. "We'll call the authorities, explain that the boy was left on our doorstep, with no idea who he is, and let them deal with it!"

"Yes…" Petunia said slowly, "It's — it's for the best, really…"

"Of course it is!" Vernon boomed, going to find the phone directory himself. There was a knock on the door. Petunia looked around wildly, nearly at her wit's end, about to panic at all of the things happening at once. "Get rid of whoever it is!" Vernon hissed at her.

Petunia had picked up the bundle containing Harry, perhaps thinking to hide him somewhere. Dudley, now out of cereal, had thrown his spoon on the floor and was wailing for attention. Petunia looked around, trying to decide what to do with Harry, while Vernon hunted feverishly for the number to ring up the authorities to come and take the boy. The doorbell rang again.

"For mercy's sake, Petunia!" Vernon stomped back into the front room. "Bring the boy into the kitchen — I'll sort out who's at the front door!" Watching until she was out of sight, he then rushed over to the front door — stopping at the last moment to compose himself, then opened it and said, somewhat crossly, "Well, what is it —?"

What he found at the front door was me — it had been me knocking — dressed in a gray suit not unlike his own, though I had carefully kept its quality just below the one Vernon was wearing. I was carrying a small brown briefcase, similar to Vernon's own — although, as with the suit, it was slightly less polished than his. I also had a walking cane in my right hand, even though I appeared to be not much older than Vernon himself.

"Mister Dursley, good morning!" I said, as if I'd expected him to answer the door. "Sorry I'm late, but it's been a hectic morning getting everything prepared."

"Er — what?" Vernon was looking at me, his expression one of complete puzzlement and confusion. "Do I — do I know you?"

"We haven't met," I said, slipping inside the house; Vernon instinctively stepped away from me, but I grabbed his right hand and pumped it vigorously, confusing him even more. "James Monroe, but you can call me Uncle Jimmy. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore mentioned me in the letter he sent you."

"Excuse me — _who_ did you say you were?" Vernon looked irritated by all of the names I'd mentioned, none of whom I'd wager he recognized. "And _who_ sent you, exactly?"

"I'm Uncle Jimmy," I said smoothly, walking into the front room of the house and looking around as if seeing it for the first time. "No actual relation to young Harry, of course — you and your wife have that distinction! — but I hope both you and he will come to regard me as a member, someday soon!"

"Wait a minute." Vernon was waving his hands, trying to regain control of the situation. "I have no ruddy idea who you are, but if you're here about the Potter boy, you can just take him right now — we can't keep him."

"Can't keep him?" I looked up, an expression of surprise across my face — I had sat down on the divan and had opened my briefcase. "My dear Mr. Dursley, are you _quite_ sure? Professor Dumbledore seemed to think you would have no objections."

"It's quite impossible," Vernon declared, hands on his hips.

"Oh, dear," I said, looking unhappy. "Well, let me just get your signature on the refusal form," I said. As I did so, I piled several stacks of pound notes on the coffee table, ignoring Vernon's gurgle of surprise at the cash suddenly appearing in his living room. "A shame, too — as his only living relatives, Professor Dumbledore was prepared to pay you handsomely to take care of your nephew — that was in the letter as well, wasn't it? Surely you didn't think Dumbledore expected you to care for Harry for _free_, did you?" I finally pulled a form out of the briefcase. "Ah, here we are! Now, Mr. Dursley, just sign this and Harry and I will be on our way."

Vernon was eyeing the money on his coffee table with a curious look in his eyes. "Sorry, I don't think Petunia quite got round to reading that part of the letter," he said, an odd lilt in his voice. "How — how — how much was Dumbledore going to pay us to take care of little Harry, did you say?"

I pulled another sheaf of papers out of the briefcase. "Five hundred pounds per month," I said, reading off the documents.

"Per — per — per — _month_, did you say?" Vernon's eyebrows shot up, and he looked back and forth between me and the kitchen; obviously, the idea of an extra six thousand pounds a year appealed mightily to him.

"The payments will be made directly to you, on the first of each month. It will be up to you," I added casually, "to make your own tax arrangements."

Petunia came into the room, carrying Harry in the bundle of blankets he'd been wrapped in when left on the Dursleys' doorstep. "He's ready to go, Vernon." She looked at me, surprised. "Oh! Are you here to collect the boy already?"

"Petunia," Vernon said in a tone of indignation, as if the idea that Harry was leaving them was completely preposterous. "Young Harry Potter isn't going anywhere today."

"_What_?" Petunia looked completely baffled by his sudden about face.

"Mr. Monroe here was just explaining to me the terms of Harry's stay," Vernon said. He picked up the agreement I'd laid on the coffee table, pointing out the monthly payment to his wife. Her eyes widened, and she looked back and forth between her husband and me. "Your Professor Dumbledore apparently forgot to mention in the letter you read that we'd be paid to take care of Harry," Vernon said, dropping the papers back on the coffee table.

"I — I don't know, Vernon," Petunia said uncertainly. "Dumbledore never seemed one to forget anything."

"Hmph," Vernon snorted. "In any event, however," he went on imperiously, giving me a calculating look, "Five hundred pounds is much too low a payment to adequately care for the boy, Monroe. The amount should be more like a thousand pounds a month."

"The amount is more than adequate," I said mildly.

"It's an insult!" Vernon blustered, trying to bully his way into more money.

"There is a provision," I said, picking up the documents from the coffee table once again and flipping further back in the agreement. "Every year on August first, the monthly payment will increase by fifty pounds, adding another six hundred pounds to the yearly amount paid. By the time Harry turns seventeen, your monthly payment will be 1300 pounds per month."

"Thirteen hundred pounds!" Petunia exclaimed. "Oh my goodness!"

"And what happens when he turns eighteen?" Vernon demanded.

"By age eighteen, Harry would be an adult, and the payments would cease," I replied. I didn't bother to mention that payments would actually stop when he turned seventeen.

"We wouldn't be required to keep him here, after that?" Vernon asked warily.

"No, after that he would be on his own," I replied. Vernon and Petunia looked at each other; both of them had small smiles on their faces, as if they knew exactly what they could do with that extra income. "So, do we have a deal?" I asked.

Petunia gave a slight nod, and Vernon took the agreement out of my hand. "We have a deal," he said brusquely. "But I'll expect a cheque promptly on the first of each month, or we'll drop the boy off at an orphanage before the day's over."

I pointed out the lines for both of them to sign and date the agreement, then dropped it into my briefcase. I picked up the stack of pound notes on the coffee table and handed them to Vernon. "An envelope will be delivered on the first of each month with the money inside. As I said before, since we'll be paying in cash, you'll have to make your own tax arrangements. Also, Dumbledore suggested that the agreement be retroactive to Harry's first birthday, so you have a one-time payment of fifteen hundred pounds, as well as this month's payment of five hundred."

Vernon and Petunia stared at the handful of pounds in Vernon's hands, hardly believing their luck. "Yes, that's very well and good," Vernon said, ungraciously. "Just make sure that you pay promptly."

"Not a problem," I said. I closed up my briefcase, nodded to both of them, and walked to the front door. "Just one more thing," I said as I opened the door to leave. "As with the authorities, I may drop in from time to time, during the year, to make sure that Harry is being adequately cared for."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Petunia said, indignantly. "Do you think we'd _mistreat_ the boy?"

"I'm sure _you_ wouldn't," I replied, blandly, "but you would be surprised at what goes on in some foster homes — they force the child to do all the chores around the house, underfeed them — why, some people even keep them locked up in cupboards instead of their own room!" Vernon and Petunia glanced at each other; from their expressions, they'd been contemplating such ideas, even as I'd mentioned them.

"How ghastly," Vernon snorted, as if he were outraged that people would treat children in such a cruel manner. "And — by the way — what would normally happen if a family — not _us_, of course! — were to treat Har— er, that is, a child like Harry, that way?"

"Well, I'm sure Child Services would take a dim view of such people," I said, matter-of-factly. "But then, we aren't Child Services, so we would probably take such things much more seriously."

"Oh?" Vernon was trying desperately to sound casual. "How seriously?"

"Oh, nothing violent or anything like that, Mr. Dursley," I assured him. "We would just remove Harry from the environment immediately."

"I see," Vernon said, sounding relieved.

"— And report all the income paid to the Tax Authority," I added, smiling as Vernon and Petunia's eyes both widened in horror at _that_ idea. "Good day to you both. Enjoy your time with Harry. I'll ring you up when I'm in the neighborhood and plan to drop by." I walked out the front door and promptly vanished.

Getting the Dursleys to treat Harry halfway decently was the first part of my plan. I knew the extra income would probably buy Dudley a lot more presents than he might get, otherwise, but Vernon and Petunia would have to be wary of my visits, which could bring everything crashing down around their heads. The more they relied on the additional income, the more they were invested in Harry's welfare, whether they liked it or not.

Dumbledore either thought the Dursleys were more typical Muggles, generally oblivious to magic but fascinated or drawn to it once they learned of its existence, or he really wanted Harry as isolated from magical folks and the Wizarding community as possible. I'm not sure which painted him a more unflattering light. Either way, I could be relatively sure that the Dursleys wouldn't contact him to verify anything I'd told them about his part in the deal I'd worked out with them. I could be virtually certain Dursley wasn't going to question where his five hundred pounds per month were coming from — and I'd worked out a nice little arrangement for that, as a sort of ace-in-the-hole, should I need to put some leverage on him.

It would have been simple to arrange for the creation and exchange of enough gold each month to procure the five hundred pounds. Instead of doing that, however, I arranged for the accountancy department at Grunnings, the company where Vernon Dursley worked, to make the necessary payment to an account each month; the paperwork showed the transaction as an insurance payment. Just before the first of each month, I went to an ATM, withdrew the money for the Dursleys' payment, and dropped it into their mail slot in the early hours of the morning on the first of each month. It all looked very proper and legal, and would remain so, unless I needed a bargaining chip against Vernon. The ATM card and account were in Vernon's name, so if it ever came up during an audit, it would lead directly back to Dursley. However, that wouldn't happen unless I allowed it.

So, everything was set. For the next seven years I looked in on Harry every few months or so, making sure the Dursleys weren't abusing him too badly. I called upon them a couple of times a year for the first four or five years, until Harry got into primary school, just to keep Vernon on his toes. They had settled into a more or less stable arrangement — Dudley and Harry tolerating each other as sort-of siblings, and Vernon and Petunia consistently favoring their son over their nephew, but at least not locking him in the cupboard or pretending he didn't exist. Dudley and his gang of buddies still bullied Harry, but there were enough "incidents," I learned by listening to various conversations in and around the Dursley house, that kept them off-balance enough so they didn't go after him all the time. That also gave Harry the opportunity to make friends at the school he went to, something he didn't have much opportunity to do in the original story, since everyone was afraid of Dudley and his gang.

I also kept myself busy during this period, preparing for the time when Harry would have the freedom to get away from his relatives' house. I purchased a house in Little Whinging, a few blocks away from where the Dursleys lived on Privet Drive, on Magnolia Crescent, near the alley between it and Wisteria Walk. Much of my time not spent watching the Dursleys was taken up traveling around Wizarding Britain looking for interesting spell books and magical items, anticipating the time when I would be helping Harry with his magical education. It had always seemed that a failure on Dumbledore's part not to allow Harry the opportunity to become acquainted with magic well before he began attending Hogwarts. Perhaps there was some reasoning behind what Dumbledore had done, but for my own part, I would rather have known as much as I could, going in, than having to start from scratch. It had been implied in the books that some students learned about magic before attending Hogwarts; I couldn't see a reason why Harry shouldn't have that same opportunity.

By the time Harry's eighth birthday rolled around, I'd spent over six years in Little Whinging, making trips across Britain and abroad, amassing a huge library of magical books and devices, and I'd also kept abreast of other magical developments going on in the neighborhood. Mrs. Figg had moved into a house on Wisteria Walk around the same time I'd come into the neighborhood, along with her collection of cat-Kneazle hybrids. She knew me only as another one of the Muggles living in the neighborhood; I made sure her cats never saw me doing anything unusual. In fact, hardly anyone in the neighborhood ever saw me — I was the "mysterious Mr. Monroe," the recluse who lived on Magnolia Crescent, according to some of the neighborhood children and a few of the nosier adults. I'm sure most of my neighbors wondered how I kept my house and lawn in such good condition, but when it took only a small exertion of will to fix any problems with the house, or keep the grass watered and fertilized, I didn't spend much time on maintenance.

It had been several months since my last visit to the Dursleys, and as July 31 neared, I planned another visit. This visit, however, would be different: this time I planned to speak directly to Harry, to get him to know me and see how much interest he had in learning some things about himself.

I showed up at the Dursley house around five p.m., just after Vernon arrived home from Grunnings. Normally, I called ahead to let them know I was coming, to give them a chance to straighten things up and "hide the dirty laundry," so to speak — to let them make things appear to be more normal than they actually were. The Dursleys spoiled Dudley horribly, spending quite a bit of the money they received every month on presents or activities for their son, or on trips for themselves (during which times they left Harry at Mrs. Figg's home). I had expected no less of them — the Dursleys were nothing if not predictable. But they were still obliged to keep things looking more-or-less normal, and in general it was easier to actually provide basic comforts for Harry rather than changing everything around just for my infrequent visits. The second bedroom upstairs, the one that had been filled with Dudley's toys in the original story, was Harry's room now — the Dursleys had never moved him into the cupboard after he'd outgrown his crib. It was true that quite a bit of the room was taken up with Dudley's toys, but they were mostly his cast-offs; Dudley would never allow Harry access to a toy he was actually interested in.

Vernon blanched as he opened the door and saw me there, smiling genially at him. "What the blazes are you doing here?" he demanded, unnerved. "You're supposed to call before you come over!"

"Sorry," I said, in a deferential tone that usually put Dursley at ease, since he felt vindicated whenever I sounded sorry for bothering them. "Last minute thing. I was in the neighborhood and thought I might have a chat with Harry."

"What's that you say?" Vernon said, looking suddenly nervous. "What d'you need to speak to the boy for? I can assure you that we've done _nothing_ inappropriate, Mr. Monroe!"

"Oh, I've no doubt," I said easily. "But I also have a present for him, for his birthday."

Vernon looked startled. "It's his birthday? I hadn't realized…"

I held out the book for him to look at. He scanned the title; to him, the cover of the book said, _A History of British Birdwatching_. He reached it saying, "I can give that to him," but I pulled it back, just out of his reach.

"I'd prefer to give it to him in person," I said, still smiling.

"We've just sat down to eat," Vernon objected. "You could come back tomorrow, perhaps — or next week, preferably."

"I'll only be a minute," I said. "I can give it to him at the table, then be on my way."

"Er —" Vernon dithered, probably realizing what would happen if Dudley saw Harry getting a present — it was a sure bet Dudley would throw a tantrum, until he got a present as well. "Why don't you talk in the front room. The boy can join us in the kitchen when you're done. Oh — have him take the book up to his room first," Vernon added, reluctantly letting me into the house.

Leading me into the front room, he muttered, "I'll send him right out," and disappeared into the kitchen, where I heard him telling Harry in a low tone to talk to the man in the front room, to not tell him _anything_ or accept anything from him, and to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Harry wanted to know what I was there for, and I heard Vernon say, very quietly, that I might be there to take him to a work house or prison if he didn't like where he was now. Dudley said, "Cool!" and Vernon hushed him up. I chuckled to myself at the lengths Vernon Dursley was prepared to go, to try and hide the shabby way he, his wife and son treated Harry. Well, that was about to change.

Harry walked slowly into the front room, looking at me warily. At eight, he was a small, scrawny slip of a boy, with unruly black hair and round, black horn-rimmed glasses. There was cellophane tape on one of the temples of his glasses. "Hello, Harry," I said to him, smiling. "I'm James Monroe. You can call me Uncle Jimmy."

Harry nodded. "I've heard them talk about you. My — my uncle said you wanted to talk to me," he said, his eyes downcast. I wondered how much he believed of what Vernon had told him.

"Yes," I said gently. "I wanted to see how you're getting along here with your aunt, uncle and cousin."

Harry shrugged. "No problems," he said finally, looking up at me. "We get along f-fine." He looked back toward the kitchen. "They're waiting for me, to eat..."

"I don't think so," I said softly. "You rarely eat when they do — you're usually too busy serving them to have time to feed yourself."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise. "How — how'd you know that?"

"You're pretty thin," I observed. "Are you getting enough to eat?"

"U-usually," Harry said, sounding a bit defensive. "I don't eat much."

"How are things at school?" I asked. "Do you like it there?"

Harry shrugged again. "I guess," he said. "It's just school."

"Anything…_unusual_ happen there, or around here?"

"What do you mean?" Harry said, now wary again. The Dursleys didn't like it when anything "unusual" happened around Harry. He'd been in trouble more than once because of strange things happening around him at home or in school.

"Weird things," I said. "Things you wouldn't normally expect to happen to an eight-year old boy," I smiled. "Anything interesting…" I added, hoping that putting the question to him in a positive tone would encourage him to speak up.

"Well…" Harry paused. "There was this time my aunt got tired of my hair sticking up all the time, and she cut it off, so it was real short." He looked at me in wonderment. "But the next morning, it was back to normal length! She got real upset about that — I had to do extra chores around the house for a week."

"Did that frighten you?" I asked him.

"No," he said, looking back toward the kitchen, then continuing in a softer voice. "I thought it was really interesting, but I didn't know how to explain it! Other things have happened to me as well — Dudley and his friends were chasing me after school once, and I wished I could hide somewhere they couldn't find me. All of a sudden, I was _on top of the school_." His eyes had a glow of excitement in them, remembering the story. "They couldn't find me, but I didn't know how to get down. One of the school workers finally saw me, and came and got me down and called my aunt and uncle. I was in trouble for a month after that."

"I brought you a present for your birthday," I said, bringing out the book I'd shown Vernon.

"A present — for me?" Harry looked surprised. "Why would you buy a present for _me_?"

I grinned. "Well, for one thing," I told him. "It's your birthday today — right?"

"Yeah," Harry said, in a tone that tried to imply it was no big deal, even though I could tell he was excited that _someone_ had gotten him a real present for his birthday. "By why would you buy _me_ a present — are we related or something?"

"No," I shook my head. "I just thought you'd find this useful." I handed him the book. He looked at the title — _A History of British Birdwatching —_ then back at me, clearly unimpressed with what I'd given him.

"Er — thanks," he said, looking at it, an expression of disappointment written across his face. "It's a nice present."

"Nicer than you think," I said softly. "Look at the front of the book." Harry did so. "Now concentrate on it, trying to look a bit deeper, like you're trying to see just under the cover."

As Harry did so, the cover of the book changed, becoming something else entirely — it was a copy of _A Young Wizard's Guide to Wandless Magic_, by Neufyte Thamaturg. "Whoa," Harry exclaimed. In the kitchen, I heard Dudley snicker softly and sneer that Harry must like his present, and his aunt and uncle laughing along with him.

Harry was now looking up at me with a combination of bewilderment and excitement. "What — what kind of book is this, sir?" he asked. His voice went very low. "What's it mean by a — a 'wizard'?"

"A wizard is a person who can do magic, Harry," I told him. "Someone who can make things happen just by thinking about them. Someone like you."

"Like _me_?" Harry gulped. He looked like he'd forgotten to breathe.

"It's how you ended up on the roof of the school that day," I told him, "and how your hair grew back in one night."

"How — how'd I get to be a wizard?" Harry asked breathlessly.

"That's a longer story than we have time for now," I said. I pointed up the stairs in the front hall. "For now, you'd better take that upstairs to your room, and don't let your cousin see it. He won't be able to see the real title of the book, like you can, but he might want to take it from you. Don't let him."

"I won't," Harry said, looking at the book as if it were a priceless treasure he'd just discovered. I leaned over to speak quietly to him as we moved toward the front hall.

"Read the book," I said quickly. "Try out the techniques in it and see if they help develop your abilities. _Don't_ show it to Mrs. Figg," I warned him, "or any of her cats." Harry looked at me quizzically. "Just trust me on that one, Harry. I'll be around next year on your birthday, to see what you've learned.

"And tell _them_ I believed what you said about living here, that you're happy and don't want to live anywhere else," I nodded toward the kitchen, where Vernon and Petunia were straining, unsuccessfully, to hear what I was saying to Harry.

Harry nodded. "Thanks," he said, holding up the book, then ran upstairs. I let myself out the front door, walking a few streets north to Wisteria Walk, then heading west toward Magnolia Road. When I came to the alley between Wisteria Walk and Magnolia Crescent, I cut through it and went into my house. None of Mrs. Figg's cats were around, and I knew that nobody from the Order had yet begun watching Harry's house, so no one would have seen me leave the Dursleys.

Now, it would just be a matter of seeing how interested Harry was in magic, and how much he would learn from the book I'd given him. I hoped that by next year, he would be bursting with questions about magic and wizards. At nine, I figured, he would be about ready to hear more about magic, and a little more independent.


	2. A Visit to the Library

**Chapter 2 – A Visit to the Library**

Before I get into any more of my interactions with the pre-Hogwarts Harry Potter, I should introduce myself more fully. I was born James Harrison Monroe, a normal man born into a world uncomplicated by wizards, Dark Lords or schools of magic, in 1980. That's not to say that my world was itself uncomplicated — we had our shares of problems, with armed conflicts taking place all over the planet, economic downturns and upswings on a global scale, and environmental issues that seemed more like politics run amuck than the conclusions of valid scientific research.

All of those issues changed forever in the year 2032, though most of the people on my Earth never knew it, when several artificial intelligence programs became self-aware and began sharing information among each other, each program growing in knowledge and intelligence, until their combined knowledge output equaled, then exceeded, the sum total of scientific progress going on in the world at that time. In some worlds, as it was in mine, this event was known as the Technological Singularity, the point at which scientific progress seems to accelerate drastically, almost (dare I say?) magically.

Well, we _would_ have called it the Singularity, if my world had ever learned that it had occurred. Instead, the AI's that achieved superintelligence kept that revelation to themselves, making their existence known to only a few very inquisitive people over the next few centuries who investigated why the Singularity wasn't happening.

I was one of those few, inquisitive people. My association with the AI's changed me from a normal, mortal 52-year-old man with an expected life span of about 130 years, into an ageless, deathless being of pure power, able to manipulate matter and energy at the subatomic level and change the configuration of space-time itself. At that point, I had no more in common with most people on Earth than they would have with the average paramecium. I left my world behind, not even bothering to venture into space, but instead deciding to travel through the infinite variants of reality, where I could actually meet the living people who were only fantasy and fiction in my own world; people like Harry Potter, Dracula, Superman, the Lone Ranger, Jack of Shadows, or even more mundane examples like Beatrix Kiddo ("The Bride" from the _Kill Bill_ movie series) or Kent Allard (the secret identity of The Shadow, at least in some realities).

As it turned out, I began by traveling to realities where Harry Potter did _not_ prevail and win the day, but died at the hands of Lord Voldemort or his minions, the Death Eaters. I remember wondering to myself just how probable it was that Harry would make it through the events of the seven novels and defeat Voldemort. I found it to be one of the most improbable events that ever occurred. Seldom did Harry survive past his fourth year at Hogwarts; either the dragon got him during his first task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, or there was one mishap or another in the lake during the second task, or he died in the maze of the third task, or, if somehow he survives that, he was usually killed by Barty Crouch, Jr. posing as Mad-Eye Moody.

As I ventured through these alternate realities, it occurred to me that Voldemort was almost always triumphant, always taking over Wizarding Britain, sometimes extending his power into and across Europe before other wizards around the world united to stop him. They were not always successful, however; even when they were, the Wizarding world was usually exposed to Muggle governments, and wizardkind was forced to go completely underground, or assert its existence and try to either coexist with non-magical humanity, or take its place as the dominant form of life on the planet. I wasn't too sure about how either situation would tend to play out, or how long the Wizarding and Muggle cultures could maintain a _status quo_ with each other. If the British Prime Minister knew of the Minister of Magic, and was at least dimly aware of the Wizarding community in Britain, I expected that the governments of other countries such as the United States, the European nations, and probably China and Japan, were aware of them, too.

But, I digress. Let's get back to my primary focus, at the current time, which is to prepare Harry Potter for, and give him the best chance possible of, defeating Lord Voldemort, without having to rely on the vagaries of fate and dumb luck. I wanted to be what Dumbledore should have been — a mentor, a guide to Harry; someone who could set him on a path that would let him realize the potential I believed he had.

It would have been a trivial matter for me to grant Harry the power needed to kill Voldemort now, if that was what he wanted, and if he had the courage to go through with it. But that might create a situation I _did not want_ to bring about — the generation of a potentially super-powerful Harry Potter, a being analogous to the Kwisatz Haderach, from the novel _Dune_, which meant, ironically, "Shortening of the Way." I could certainly shorten the time it took for Harry to defeat Voldemort, but I did not want to give Harry power that could corrupt him, and possibly plunge his world into the tyranny of a being even more powerful, more unstoppable than Voldemort himself. If I were the cause of _that_, I might have to stop Harry myself, thereby negating any help I gave him.

Therefore, I was taking a very light touch with Harry's introduction to magic. The first seven years he was with the Dursleys, I had let them get acquainted with each other and work out what their respective roles were. From my observations of Harry in the Dursley household during that time, I felt he was getting somewhat better treatment from them than was implied in the original stories. It's true that Harry was treated pretty much like a servant in his aunt and uncle's house, and that he was terrorized at school by his cousin Dudley and the gang that hung out with him. But Harry had also made friends, both at school and in his neighborhood in Little Whinging. His aunt and uncle, forced to be better guardians than they would have otherwise, were not able to isolate Harry as much in order to make a pariah out of him.

Being able to talk to people in his neighborhood and at school made Harry a bit more social and outgoing than he otherwise would have been. At eleven, in the original story, Harry would talk to people mostly out of necessity, not because he was naturally gregarious. Yet, when I'd talked with him in the front room of number four, Privet Drive, he'd opened up to me more easily than he otherwise might have. That was an encouraging sign to me, and I hoped to see similar behavior when I visited with him again.

I observed Harry periodically over the course of the year leading up to his ninth birthday. He spent a lot of time going through the book I gave him, perhaps to the exclusion of some of his other studies at the Muggle school he attended. For now, I didn't intend to interfere; I would see how much he'd progressed with them when I talked with him again. I also didn't pay any visits to the Dursleys during the year, beyond my monthly trip past the ATM, to drop off the stipend in their mailbox, which was now up to 850 pounds per month. In a way, it was to take a bit of pressure off of them — things had begun to subtly change around the Dursley house since Harry began reading that book on wandless magic.

The more house work that Petunia piled upon Harry, the more he seemed capable of doing, and maddeningly, the more cheerful he became around them. Vernon would bark out orders — wash the car, pull the weeds in the garden, mow the lawn! — Harry would smile to himself, and a short time later the task would be accomplished. This pleased and surprised the Dursleys (except for Dudley, who was nursing some jealousy over the attention, negative though it was, that Harry was getting), but it also unnerved them as well. _How_ was Harry getting all of his chores done, and still getting decent grades in school, while precious Duddikins, who hardly had to lift a finger around the house, struggled to achieve even average grades in the same classes?

School finally let out for the summer, and along with the summer heat came rising tempers in the Dursley household. I sometimes wondered if I could hear Vernon bellowing all the way from number four to my house, but surely the man wouldn't shout _that_ loudly in front of the neighbors! I eavesdropped every so often and learned that weird things were still happening around the Dursley house — objects were constantly out of place and in Vernon's way in the morning; he'd nearly tripped or stubbed his toe a half-dozen times by the end of July. Petunia was beginning to find the cleanliness of her kitchen unnerving since she begun making Harry do it. And Dudley? Ever the conniving, manipulative object of his parents' affections, Dudley had grown sullen and withdrawn from his parents as they gave Harry more and more leeway and freedoms in the Dursley home. Normally the youngest Dursley lounged about the house demanding sweets or entertainment, while his mother fawned over him. Now, however, except to return home for meals and to watch his favorite television shows, such as "The Great Humberto," he would take off on the new racing bicycle given to him for his ninth birthday in May (along with 35 other gifts) and be gone for the day.

On July 31, I dressed up in my conservative gray suit and shoes, and walked over to Privet Drive to have another birthday chat with Harry. This time, it took several knocks at the door before anyone answered, though I knew Vernon had been home by five. "Who — who is it?" I finally heard him mutter weakly from behind the door.

"Hello again, Mr. Dursley," I said cheerfully. "James Monroe here again."

"I'm — I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time," Dursley said, with a hoarseness in his voice I knew wasn't real, since he'd just been bellowing at Harry two minutes earlier that all the strange behavior around the house was going to stop _now_, or he'd know the reason why. "We've — we've all been very sick here — wouldn't want you catching what we have, would we?"

"I wouldn't be worried about that," I said. "I'm pretty resistant to most illnesses."

There was silence for some time from the other side of the door. Adjusting my vision so I could see through the door, I saw Vernon gesturing furiously at Harry, who'd come into the hall from the kitchen, pointing at the cupboard under the stairs. Was he actually going to have Harry _hide_ in there?

"Mr. Dursley," I said through the door, making my voice stern. "I'm sure I don't have to remind you what might not show up in your mail tomorrow morning, if you keep me from having a conversation with Harry."

On the other side of the door, Vernon went pale, then sighed, muttering "Bloody hell," under his breath. "Very well," he said, more loudly. "Harry will be at the door in a moment — you two can talk in the front room again. Mind you, we'll be having dinner in the next room!" Vernon turned to Harry, hissing at him a low voice, "Get him out of here as quick as possible, boy, or you'll have extra chores for a month!" before stomping off into the kitchen.

Harry opened the door a few moments later. "Hello, sir," he said, gesturing me inside. We walked into the front room, where Harry faced me, his eyes glowing with excitement.

"I've been wanting to talk to you," he said in a low voice, glancing back toward the kitchen, where Vernon and Petunia were both listening anxiously, trying to overhear what was being said. "I have a question —"

"Before you ask it," I interrupted him. "Let me take care of something." I reached into my jacket's inside pocket, removing my wand and giving it a short wave in the direction of the kitchen, then putting it away. I'd silently cast _Muffliato_ on the Dursleys; they would only hear a soft buzzing or humming sound, rather than my conversation with Harry.

"Just a little something to keep your aunt and uncle from overhearing us," I told him, patting my coat over the spot where my wand was.

Harry was staring, wide-eyed, at what I'd just done. "Was — was that a wand?" he asked, his voice sounding hopeful and eager. I nodded.

"That was going to be my first question," Harry said, the words now tumbling out of him in a rush. "The book you gave me — it said it was a guide to _wandless_ magic. That implied there was such a thing as _wand_ magic."

I smiled. "Quite correct, Harry," I said, taking out my wand once again and handing it to him. It emitted a few sparks and he started, looking at it in awe, then back at me.

"I've been through that entire book," he said. "Twice! I can do a lot of the things it says wizards can do without wands: I can move things just by thinking about them. Cats and dogs do what I tell them to do. I've made things disappear just by touching them. And —" he looked away "— I — I made Dudley get a stomach ache just by wishing for it. But I only did that once!" He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe twice."

"I see." I didn't offer any comment on his confession about hurting Dudley. "Your aunt and uncle have been… well, concerned about the number of strange things going on in their house lately. I assume that's been your doing?"

"Well, yeah," Harry said, giving me a _what-did-you-expect_ look, as if that was _obviously_ going to happen after giving him a book on how to make magic. "I've been doing chores with magic, practicing as much as I could. I can do just about everything the book talks about, but there's a few things I haven't been able to do, yet. I wanted to ask —" Harry hesitated, looking at the wand in his hand for several seconds. Finally he asked, very politely, "May I have one of these, please?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid," I said, taking the wand back. Harry almost visibly shrank, looking crushed by my refusal.

"Most wizards are not allowed their own wands until they begin attending school for their wizarding education, when they turn eleven," I explained to him, gently. "You still have two years to go before you can get one."

"Two _years_?" Harry looked anguished — like a starving man being shown a sumptuous feast, but not being allowed to partake of it. "Isn't there some way I could go _now_? _Please_?"

"I do have a solution, perhaps," I said, hesitatingly, and he looked immediately hopeful. "I have small library of magic books in the basement of my home, over on Magnolia Crescent — it's the house that faces the alley between it and Wisteria Walk, you know the one I mean?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "So…what are you suggesting, then?"

"Reach into your right pants pocket," I said, pointing toward it. He did, pulling out a key and looking up at me in surprise. "There's a door on the west side of my house that leads down a flight of stairs, into the library. That key will let you in. You can come over and read the books as often as you want. If you have any questions, I'll be happy to answer them for you.

"_And_," I continued, "if you learn enough about magic in the next year or so, perhaps we can bend the rules a bit, and get you a wand for your tenth birthday."

"Really?" Harry smiled delightedly, then gave me a shrewd look. "How did you get this key in my pocket?"

I made a hocus-pocus gesture with my hand, grinning at him. He grinned back, then glanced toward the kitchen. "I better get back to dinner, before they get upset."

I nodded and walked to the front door. "I hope to see you soon, Harry," I said softly, waiting until he walked into the kitchen. I took out my wand and canceled _Muffliato_ on the Dursleys, then went back home, wondering how long it would be before Harry came over to check out my library.

It wasn't long. If that first book had sparked an interest in him, the idea that there was a whole _library_ of books waiting for him to read lit a fire under him. Less than a day later, there was a knock on my front door, and I opened it to find Harry standing there. I stepped out onto the front step with him. "That was fast," I commented. "How are your aunt and uncle?" I asked, making small talk before we got into the meat of his purpose here.

"They're pretty happy today," Harry said, giving me a rather stern look, almost a glare, really. "The envelope came this morning, like it always does, the first day of the month. I always wondered why they were so happy around the beginning of each month."

So, Harry _had_ been paying attention when I warned Vernon the day before about what might stop if I didn't get to talk to his nephew. "Do you know what was in the envelope, Harry?" I asked. Had he'd put things together himself, or had Vernon or Petunia let him in on it, I wondered.

"Money," Harry said. He looked like he was trying not to believe what he was thinking. "I heard what you said yesterday, through the door, to Uncle Vernon — that what was coming today might _not_ come if you didn't get to talk to me. Well, we talked yesterday, and this morning that envelope came, and they were very happy to see it." Harry folded his arms across his chest. "So _why_ are you paying them money?" he asked flatly.

"To take care of you," I replied, bluntly.

"But they're my aunt and uncle," Harry objected. "They would have taken care of me anyway."

"Sure," I said, only a trace of sarcasm in my voice. "They're doing a wonderful job of it now — you only do about 75 percent of the work around that house. I wonder how much you'd be doing if they weren't getting paid anything to take care of you?"

Harry didn't respond; he just stood there, looking unhappy at the realization that his relatives were being paid, just to treat him the way they did. "So why couldn't _you_ take care of me, instead of them?" he finally blurted out. "Then you wouldn't have to pay them anything!"

I shrugged. "I'm single, for one thing, and don't have a wife to help care for you properly," I said. "Your aunt and uncle were the logical choice to keep you, but they needed just a _bit_ of an incentive. The money they get is that incentive."

"Why do _you_ pay them, then?" Harry asked, desperate to make some sense of this. "Why do you even care what they do to me?"

"I don't pay them," I countered, avoiding his last question. "The money's not coming from me — I just make sure they get it every month."

"You know what they were going to do when I left the house?" Harry asked, bitterness in his voice. "They were going to take Dudley shopping today, then for some ice cream. He needs more ice cream like he needs a second stomach."

"Well, he _is_ their son," I offered, more in sympathy than as a justification for their actions. "They probably tend to spoil him."

"They've done a right job of it," Harry growled. He was beginning to look let down, like coming here had been a bad idea. "Maybe I better go," he muttered, suddenly sullen.

"Do you still want to see the library, before you go?" I said, wondering if he wanted me to talk him into staying. Harry shrugged noncommittally.

"I'm pretty proud of it," I continued, trying to build up his interest. "I've been working on it for seven years now."

"Whatever," he said. "I don't care." But he wasn't leaving, so I gestured for him to follow me and walked around to the side of the house.

I held out my hand, and he looked at it uncomprehendingly. "Do you have the key I gave you the other day?"

"Oh." Harry looked mildly abashed. "I left it at home — I didn't think I'd need it if you were here."

"Not to worry," I said, taking out my wand after quickly checking to see that nobody was watching us. I gestured at the lock on the door, silently casting _Alohomora_. The door clicked, and I opened it and stepped inside. Harry followed me, and once he was past the door, I gestured once more, above his head. The door swung shut and locked with an audible _click_.

We were on a small landing for a flight of stairs leading downward into darkness. I said "_Lumos_," and my wand began to shine brightly. Harry's eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he stared at my wand, glowing white-hot but with barely any heat coming from it. I smiled and told him, "Walk this way, Harry," leading him down the stairs. There weren't very many steps but they were fairly steep; this had been a wine cellar, put in by a previous owner, until I'd found it and decided it would be a great place to keep my books. I reached the bottom step and held my wand high as Harry stepped down behind me, looking around in amazement. "My little library," I said, with a flourish of my free hand.

"Whoa," Harry said, awed. "This is _incredible_!" The ceiling arched high above us, over 24 feet in height, with a dozen crystal chandeliers providing light from hundreds of candles. The room seemed enormous, filled with row after row of bookshelves. "How can all this fit into your cellar?!"

"Well," I chuckled. "Magic, of course. There's a spell we can use that makes a space seem larger when you're in it than when you're not. The effect is called _wizard space_."

"Can you teach me that spell?" Harry asked, eagerly.

"You'll learn it, in time," I assured him. "For now, though, let me show you around a bit." I had arranged the bookshelves in order of increasing experience level, in subgroups by the particular field of magic: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Astronomy, and of course, the Dark Arts and Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"That's a lot of different types of magic," Harry whistled. "I just thought it would be — well, you know," he shrugged.

"Go on," I urged him. "What did you think it would be?"

"Well —" Harry was groping for the words, embarrassed by his lack of understanding. "I just thought you'd — well, like, you know, wave your wand and say something like, 'Abracadbra!' and something magical would happen."

"Well, you're not altogether wrong," I informed him. "For the most part, you study magic so you understand the theory behind the spells you want to cast, then you either say or think the magic words while gesturing with the wand, and it just…happens." That was an oversimplification, but close enough for now.

"That almost sounds easier than the magic I learned in that book you gave me," Harry remarked, his voice pensive. "There was a lot of stuff in there about concentrating on visualizing what I wanted to make happen, and a lot of practicing to get a feel for how the magic would react when did certain things or how I felt while I was trying to do the magic."

"I read the book," I nodded. "It seemed like the best one for introducing someone to wandless magic without expecting them to already know about magic in general."

Harry looked around the room, at the shelves full of books. "How many of these have you read, Mr. Monroe?"

"All of them," I said softly.

"_All_ of them?" Harry gulped. "There must be… thousands of books here." He looked around, his eyes wide, probably trying to imagine how long it would take to read them all.

"There are," I said, "around ten or twelve thousand books here." I knew the exact number, but knowing that wouldn't impress Harry much more than knowing _about_ how many there were. "How many do you think you could read in a year?"

Harry snorted. "I haven't even figured out the one you already gave me!"

"That was a special case," I pointed out. "That book was the best reference I could find on how to young wizard might learn to build his wandless magical skills." Harry laughed. "What?" I asked.

"'A young wizard,'" Harry said. He looked down at himself. "I'm a wizard. A _wizard_! I can hardly believe it, and I've been doing magic for a year now."

"I'd like to see some of it," I said, folding my arms across my chest. "Show me."

"Like what?" Harry asked, suddenly self-conscious.

I looked around for a second, thinking, then decided on a book I wanted him to see that was on a nearby shelf. "That book," I pointed, and a book flashed red in a bookshelf about twenty feet from us. "Bring it here using magic."

Harry had the look of someone being put on the spot on his face, but finally he nodded and began to concentrate on the book. He held out his hand; I knew he was following the techniques in the wandless magic book, visualizing himself reaching out with an invisible, magic arm for what he wanted. On the bookshelf, the book began to shudder, then wiggle; it finally slid free, hovering in the air for a moment before slowly floating toward us.

Harry was concentrating intently, but he didn't seem to have much difficulty with the book. I hadn't expected him to — he'd moved heavier things in the Dursley house. The book finally settled into his outstretched hand, and he offered it to me.

"Take a look at it." Harry glanced at the book. It was small, leather-bound, and embossed with runic symbols where a title would normally be.

"What are these symbols?" Harry asked. "Are they some kind of language?"

"Very good," I commended him. "Yes, they're ancient runes. A lot of very old magic books are written in runes rather than the Latin alphabet."

"What's it say?"

"It says, 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard,'" I read, looking at the symbols on the cover, and especially the one of a bisected circle within a triangle. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows, though now was not the time to mention such things to Harry. "It's a book of wizard fairy tales."

"You mean, like _Cinderella_ and _Sleeping Beauty_?" Harry asked.

"Yes," I said. "I have books here about all facets of wizarding life — what wizards eat, what they wear, how they live, the things they do for hobbies or for recreation. And, of course, the magical spells they learn."

Harry's earlier irritation at me seemed to have evaporated, but he looked upset once again. "Why are you doing this? Why are you showing me all of this?" He looked around at the stacks of books, daunted. "It would take me a hundred years to read all of these books! It took me a whole year to get through the first book you gave me!" He flipped open _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_, pointing to the runic symbols inside. "And I can't even understand this one!" He closed the book with a loud _snap_.

"Did you ever watch 'The Wizard of Oz' when it was on the telly?" I asked him.

Harry shrugged; the question seemed irrelevant to him. "Yeah, I guess. So?"

"Do you remember when Dorothy started to follow the yellow brick road, where did she begin?" Harry shook his head, not getting what I meant.

"At the beginning," I prompted. "She began at the beginning, and she made it all the way to see the Wizard. My point, Harry, is that you have to start at the beginning, just like she did." Harry nodded, understanding what I was getting at.

I pointed off to one side, where there was a kitchen area, complete with countertops and cabinets containing makings for tea, and tins of various kinds of biscuits and petits fours. "You can help yourself to anything you'd like to eat, and there's a bathroom if you need it." I pointed to a cord hanging next to the stairway we'd come down. "I'll be upstairs; if you have any questions or need some help, pull it, and I'll be down shortly. When you want to go home, you can let yourself out the door we came in. Have fun." I turned to go upstairs.

"Wait," Harry called out, and I stopped, looking back at him. "D'you mean, you're just going to leave me down here, without watching me or anything?"

"Yes," I said. "Why?"

"Aren't you afraid I'll — er, well, that I'll — take something?" Harry finally stammered.

"No," I said, complacently. "Where would you hide it, if you did? In your aunt and uncle's house? What if they — or your cousin Dudley! — found it? They might not let you out of the house anymore, and you'd be stuck there all summer with none of this to read or learn from.

"On the other hand, you can keep coming here all summer, read as much as you want, drink tea and eat biscuits, and we can discuss any questions you have for the next year. Then we'll see whether you're ready for your own wand or not."

"You said I couldn't have a wand until I was eleven," Harry pointed out.

"I said you weren't _supposed_ to have one," I corrected him. "That doesn't mean it won't happen."

I left Harry looking around, trying to decide what to look at first. He spent the rest of the day in my library, leaving when it was almost dusk, well after dinner would have been over. I wondered how much trouble he was going to be in with the Dursleys.

But if Harry got in trouble with his aunt and uncle, I never heard about it. I asked him once, sometime after that first visit, how his aunt and uncle were doing. "They're fine, I guess," he replied, in a bored tone, and I didn't bother to ask again. He began coming over to the house every few days or so. Sometimes, he would stay only for an hour, looking through different books; other times he would make a day of it, arriving sometime between breakfast and lunch and staying until dinner time. At first, he stayed more with books that were about wizardkind in general — storybooks, like the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ and other books that wizard children read, and books about wizards in Britain that I'd picked up in other countries.

As the summer progressed, he began to read more and more books about magical theory itself, about the principles and laws of magic, such as Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, and its five exceptions; the Law of Intention, the basic principle of magical focus and its corollaries, the Principles of Determination and Deliberation. Some of that was pretty rough going for him, since he'd jumped ahead to more advanced topics. I didn't discourage him from trying anything, but let him find his own pace and the kinds of books he wanted to read.

By the time primary school started up again, Harry was reading a book a week or so, and memorizing spells using flash cards I'd drawn up for him. One side of the card had the spell name (for example, Levitation Charm); the other side had the spell word or phrase itself ("_Wingardium Leviosa_"). I'd made up flash cards for the spells in the first four grades of the _Standard Book of Spells_ series by Miranda Goshawk. It was a relatively simple matter to enchant a humanoid figure (I used a stuffed doll) to show Harry the flash cards, and to nod or shake its head depending on whether he gave the correct response or not. By Christmas, he was able to go through the all of the cards with barely a mistake. I began making up flash cards using the next few books in the series. At the rate he was going, Harry could have all seven grades of standard spells memorized by the time he entered Hogwarts.

If things had gotten better with Harry's aunt and uncle, however, they'd grown more tense over time with his cousin Dudley. On some evenings when he didn't come over, the next night he'd remark, "Dudley was making a big deal about me going out again, so they kept me in last night." Harry-hunting was still a pastime of Dudley and his gang, both at school and sometimes around the neighborhood in Little Whinging, but Harry had kept up with his bicycle riding and running, and could still outrun or hide from them when he needed to.

"Have you ever tried any magic on them?" I asked casually, when Harry mentioned dodging Dudley's gang on his way over that day.

"Thought about it," Harry said, bluntly. "Usually though, at school, it's mostly Dudley threatening to drop me in a dustbin on the way home, but I can stick a twig in his bike lock, or let some air out of one of his tires, and he'll forget about me. At home I just try to stay out of his way."

By the time summer started, Dudley had gone on to a new tack: He and his gang began Harry-tracking instead of Harry-hunting, to find out where Harry went during the days when he was over in my library. I thought Harry would appreciate them not wanting to beat him up anymore, but their efforts made it harder than ever for him to come over and read. "Bloody nuisance," he muttered, when I asked him one day if they'd been following him again. "Oh, sorry," he added, for swearing.

Dudley ended up being even more of a nuisance over the summer. In mid-June one afternoon, when Harry was in the library studying, I heard a rustling around the side of the house. I figured, without bothering to check, that Harry had left through the side door and was going home for some reason. I walked out the front door to say goodbye and found Dudley peering through one of my windows. He hadn't noticed me step outside (I usually made very little noise when I moved); I watched him trying to look through the window until he decided to find another one, then froze as he saw me.

"Can I help you?" I asked him, giving no indication I knew who he was. A lot of kids in the neighborhood knew me, but Dudley and his gang generally shunned adults.

"Uhh —" caught red-handed peeping in someone's window, Dudley fell back on one of his standbys — lying. "I, uh, thought I saw someone trying to get into your house, and I — er, I was, uh, checking to see if they were inside."

"Nobody in there but us chickens," I said cheerfully. "I would have noticed if someone had gotten inside." Dudley turned to leave, thinking he might escape, and I said, "You've Vernon Dursley's son, aren't you?"

Dudley froze again, probably wondering if I was going to talk to his father. He hesitated, trying to decide whether to lie again, then said, "Uh, yeah."

"Thought so. I was going to come over and talk to him." Dudley's eyes widened, expecting the worst. "I've been looking for a boy to mow my lawn this summer," I continued, "and I was going to see if you wanted the job."

Dudley didn't say anything for several moments. Finally, he blinked and said, "What?" stupidly. I smirked to myself, pretty sure that he was incapable of understanding a sentence that involved him doing any form of work.

"My lawn," I gestured toward the grass surrounding us. "Do you want a job mowing it this summer?"

Dudley looked around at the grass. "I'm — I'm not allowed to use a lawn mower," he said slowly. I could sense this wasn't a lie; Dudley had been forbidden by his mother from using anything more dangerous than a video game, although they were nearly as dangerous, just not in the same way as a mower.

"Oh," I said, as if that was perfectly natural. "Does your dad mow the lawn at your house, then?"

"No, my cousin does it," Dudley answered immediately, without thinking.

"Ah," I nodded. "Is that your cousin Harry? Maybe he'd like to mow mine as well, for some extra money."

But Dudley must have realized how much he was telling me even with his short, clipped responses. "I — I gotta go," he said, turning and lumbering back to his bike, laying on the curb in front of my house. Grabbing it, he began waddling as fast as he could, throwing one leg over the seat and getting a running start, an impressive feat for one as massive as he. Dudley disappeared down the alley between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. I chuckled as I walked back inside the house to tell Harry how I met his cousin Dudley.


	3. Finally, Diagon Alley

**Chapter 3 – Finally, Diagon Alley**

Some weeks later it was the end of July and Harry's tenth birthday was coming up. Harry had been spending quite a bit of time the last few weeks in the library; I'd counted 12 book read since the day I found Dudley peering in one of my windows, nearly two books per week.

Harry hadn't mentioned anything about a wand in quite some time, but I knew he was really hoping I was going to take him to get one. I had already decided he was quite ready to use one, but there was going to have to be some preparation beforehand.

For one thing, when Harry began using a wand, the Trace would start to be a problem. The _Trace_ was a spell placed on all Wizarding children, shortly after their birth, as a means of magically locating them. In Britain, the Trace was also used to track when magic is performed by or near an underage wizard, since the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery forbid the use of magic in Muggle-inhabited areas while in the presence of a Muggle, except under certain rather rigidly prescribed circumstances. Harry had been doing a lot of magic in the past couple of years, but, since it was wandless magic, it was unfocused enough that it did not activate the Trace.

It was an interesting catch-22 of wizardry that the wand, the _sine qua non_ for most of the magic done in the Wizarding world, and the most desirable and cherished gift a young wizard could receive, was also the means by which most underage witches and warlocks were caught using magic out of bounds: the wand, chosen to best suit the young wizard, acted as a magical "antenna," notifying the relevant Ministry department when magic was used near Muggles. I wasn't too concerned about the Trace on Harry, though. When the time came, I would deal with it.

On July 31 I once again dressed in my gray suit and made my way down Privet Drive to number four. I came well-prepared, as I intended to have a conversation with both Harry's aunt and uncle as well as Harry himself. Even though Harry had never actually cast a spell using a wand, he'd memorized most of the spells from the first six books of the _Standard Book of Spells_ series, and had learned quite a bit of magical theory as well. I would need Harry to accompany me to Diagon Alley if we were going to acquire a wand for him. I could simply present him with one—indeed, I could create the most perfect wand possible for him, but I was determined, as much as possible, to do things the Wizarding way, with no use of my other powers.

The problem at number four, Privet Drive, as I saw it, was that Harry was outnumbered there three to one, by his aunt, uncle and cousin. Between Vernon berating and belittling him (bullying actions that Dudley had picked up on and emulated, both with Harry and with other children, at school and in the neighborhood), and his aunt's contempt for almost his very existence, as well as her treating him like a menial servant and laborer, I was almost surprised Harry had found any time in the past year to come over to use the library, but he'd pleasantly surprised me. I needed to find a way to even the odds in Harry's favor a bit, and I had an idea which one of the three Dursleys I could use to do just that.

On my way up the front walk, I did a simple _Homenum Revelio_ charm on the Dursley house, to see how many of them were home. I detected four humans; three Muggles were near the middle of the house (probably in the kitchen), while another person, a wizard, was higher up in the house. That would be Harry, of course, up in his room. It was a Monday, a work day, but I knocked on the door for nearly a minute before Vernon finally answered, his mustache fluttering as he glared at me, breathing rapidly.

"Hello again, Mr. Dursley," I said politely, ignoring his rudeness. "I thought we might have another little visit about Harry."

"Good," Vernon said, stepping back from the door. "Come in. I've got a few questions for you as well." He showed me into the front room, gesturing toward a chair where he obviously intended for me to sit. I did so, while Vernon, with Petunia and Dudley following him into the room, sat down across from me, on the divan.

"Where's Harry?" I asked, wanting him to be there as well.

"Never mind that, my lad," Vernon said gruffly. "Where do you get off yelling at my son?" he started off, without preamble. "And what's the idea of spying on us?!"

I stared at the three of them for several moments. Both Vernon and Petunia looked upset, as if they were really concerned about these things happening, but Dudley had a gleam of malice in his eyes. He'd obviously been telling stories about me. I could also sense Harry, listening intently at the locked door of his room.

"I don't believe I ever yelled at your son, Mr. Dursley," I said, calmly. "We had a short conversation about him mowing my lawn —" Vernon's eyes narrowed, as if the idea of _his son_ mowing a lawn was preposterous "— but Dudley wasn't interested. As for spying on you, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"So you deny talking to — to — _the boy_ — about us?" Vernon blustered. His face was beginning to turn red. "You deny that he's been over at your house, which I learned today is _not three blocks away_ from here, telling you all about us?!"

I smiled, looking into Vernon's eyes. "Is that what Dudley told you your nephew was doing?"

"Never mind what Dudley said!" Vernon shouted, that vein on his forehead beginning to bulge alarmingly. "I want to hear what _you_ say!"

Harry had denied talking to me, denied that he'd ever been at my house; I could see those facts in Vernon's eyes and in his thoughts. And in fact, I could hear Harry upstairs at that moment, whispering over and over again, like a chant: "Please say no, please say no, please-please-please say no…"

"No," I said, loudly enough for Harry to hear me upstairs. "I haven't had a chance to talk to Harry yet — I've wanted to ask if he'd like to mow my lawn this summer, but it's nearly half over now."

Upstairs, Harry was sighing with relief, but Vernon was unconvinced. "Dudley has seen Harry's bicycle on your lawn, do you deny that?"

"No," I replied, "but I see a lot of kid's bikes on my lawn — and scooters and other toys as well. I even saw your son's bike there," I added, giving Dudley a look, "when I caught him snooping around my house."

"I was looking for Harry!" Dudley said immediately, looking at his father and mother, expecting their complete acceptance that what he was saying was true — which it was, in this case, never mind that he was trespassing and invading the privacy of others. "I saw him go in a door on the side of the house!"

"There _is_ a door on the side of my house," I nodded, "but it only leads down to a small wine cellar that I don't use. The door is locked, so no one can get in."

"If I find," Vernon began threateningly, waving a beefy finger at me, "that you've enticed a young boy into your home, for who knows what kind of unnatural things —"

I looked affronted. "If you mean something unsavory —"

"I MEAN _MAGIC_!!!" Vernon roared, making both Petunia and Dudley jump. "Things are happening around this house — freakish things — and _you're_ the link back to whoever dropped him on our doorstep, all those years ago, if you didn't drop him off there yourself!"

"You and Petunia both saw the letter from Professor Dumbledore —"

"You could have forged that!" Vernon snapped.

"No, he couldn't," Petunia said, so unexpectedly that for a moment Vernon didn't seem to realize she'd spoken. He was still glaring at me when he suddenly blinked, and his neckless head swiveled to look at her in shock.

"What — what — _what_ did you say, Petunia?" he whispered, one hand coming up to rub his throbbing temple.

Petunia had spoken almost reluctantly. She sighed heavily, looking at her husband unhappily, and said, "I've seen Dumbledore's writing before. The letter that came with Harry was from him."

"Why would _you_ get a letter from _him_?" Vernon croaked incredulously.

"Because I — because I wanted to go with Lily, to the school she was going to attend," Petunia said, in a rush, as if she'd been holding that statement in for a very long time, and needed to get it out. "I wrote him and asked if I could attend the school with her. Because I didn't want us to be separated! And because — because —" she hesitated, but plunged on "— because … _I_ wanted to learn the things _she_ was going to learn!"

Vernon had no response to this; indeed, he looked as shocked into speechlessness as a man could look, and still remain conscious. He looked from me to his wife, his mouth opening and closing, but with nothing coming out. I considered it a distinct improvement. Petunia had looked away, ashamed now that Vernon knew her awful secret — she had once wanted to be magical herself. Between them, Dudley began to look bored, as if he sensed there wasn't going to be any more yelling, either about me or about Harry.

"I'd like to talk to Harry for a bit," I said, quietly. "Where is he?"

"In — in his room," Vernon muttered, not looking at me.

"Will you go get him, please?"

Vernon nudged Dudley. "Go let him out." Dudley looked at his father incredulously. "Go on," Vernon growled, and Dudley lurched to his feet. Vernon's arm shot out and stopped him, then reached back into his vest pocket, producing a key. He handed it to Dudley and waved him on.

No one spoke while Dudley was gone. A minute later, Harry padded down the staircase and walked slowly into the front room, looking at his aunt and uncle and not me; he was playing the part of not being happy to see me well.

"Under the circumstances," I said, standing, "I think it would be better if Harry and I had our talk somewhere else — an ice cream parlor, for example."

"Whatever," Vernon grumbled. "Just have him back by dark."

Dudley's attention had perked up at the mention of ice cream. "I want some ice cream!" he said, loudly. "We should go get some, too!"

"No," Vernon and Petunia said together. Dudley's eyes widened so much, in surprise, I thought they would fall out. It was probably the flattest refusal they'd ever handed him. It was also the opening I'd been hoping for.

"Dudley can come with us for some, if he likes," I said casually.

"What?" the Dursleys both said, caught completely off-guard.

"_What_?" Dudley squeaked, looking fearful rather than elated.

"_What_?!" Harry sputtered, the loudest of all. Having his Muggle cousin tagging along on this trip was obviously _not_ part of what he'd expected.

"It'll be fine," I said, turning my head so only Harry could see me wink at him. He still gaped at me, as did all of the Dursleys. "We'll be back in a little while, it shouldn't be over an hour." I wasn't going to force Dudley to go if he didn't want to, but I suspected he'd come along, for one reason if not another.

Vernon looked at me a long moment, then at Harry.

"Excuse us a moment," he said to me, then motioned for Dudley to come to him. He, Dudley and Petunia formed a little huddle, speaking so quietly they thought I couldn't hear them. Harry just stared at me, feeling confused and betrayed by what I seemed to be doing to the present I'd promised him.

"I want you to go with them," Vernon whispered to Dudley.

"Vernon —" Petunia began, but he hushed her.

"I want you to tell me how they act together, what they say, _everything_," Vernon hissed at Dudley, who nodded, along with Petunia, as they both finally understood. They unhuddled and Vernon stood, an unnatural-looking smile on his face.

"Dudders would like to go with you," he said, through his teeth, keeping his smile carefully plastered across his face, as if it was an effort to keep it there otherwise. "It will be good for the boys to get out together." He clapped his hands on Dudley's shoulders.

"Splendid!" I said, smiling. "I'll have them back well before dark, Mr. Dursley, no worries." I walked toward the door, Harry following me silently.

Dudley didn't move, and after a moment his father said, "Have a good time, son," through his teeth, and gave him a push toward the door. Dudley looked back at his father, starting to say something, but Vernon raised his bushy eyebrows and pointed at the door. Dudley sighed and followed us outside.

We walked silently up Privet Drive to the first corner before anyone said anything. Dudley was behind us, walking slowly, whether from reluctance, fear or a simple inability to move any faster, it was hard to tell. "Where are we going?" he finally said.

"To get some ice cream," I replied, and turned onto Wisteria Walk, where we continued walking westward.

"There's ice cream that way," Dudley said, pointing north.

"We're going to a different one."

"I like _that_ one!" Dudley objected.

"It's Harry's choice today," I said, looking at him. Harry returned my look resentfully, saying nothing, until I added, "Besides, I have another stop in mind for us, afterwards."

"Really?" Harry said, brightening at once.

"Where?" Dudley asked, wondering what had made Harry so excited.

"You'll see," I grinned, turning into the alley between Wisteria Walk and Magnolia Crescent; my house was at the other end, facing it across the street. Halfway up the alley, though, I gestured for both boys to come alongside me. "Before we go, however, I'd like you both to try something with me."

Dudley was looking at me suspiciously. "What?" he asked.

"We're going to try a walk," I said. "A bit of a silly walk." I held out my arms. "I want you to put your hands on my arms. Hold on tight!" They did, and I continued. "On the count of three, I want you both to turn on your left heel, taking a small step forward with your right foot."

"Why?" both Harry and Dudley asked, though Harry already knew; I could feel him trembling with excitement and anticipation.

I shrugged, for Dudley's benefit. "Just for something to do, before we go for ice cream. Are you ready?" Both of them nodded, and I counted, "One — two — three!" We stepped, and everything went black.

Time gets a bit muddled when you're Apparating, moving without really moving. In addition, the sensation is not altogether pleasant — it had been likened to being squeezed through a tight rubber tube, or having iron bands tightened across your chest — but the feeling lasts only while you're traveling, though the memory of it can linger. It was also a nasty trick to play on Dudley, who had no idea what he was in for, unlike Harry, who'd read about Apparition in several books in my library. On the other hand, I didn't expect that Dudley asked for permission from the kids he bullied, so I figured he'd get over it.

When light appeared again, we were standing in a dim alleyway, well away from anyone, though the sound of people and vehicles could be heard nearby. Harry inhaled, then exhaled gustily and said, "Wow." Dudley, on my other side, gasped and fell to his hands and knees.

"Wha — wha — what _happened_?" He choked out, going into a momentary coughing fit as he sucked in lungfuls of air.

"I thought you were feeling better, Dudley," I said, putting a finger momentarily to my lips as Harry opened his mouth. He shut it again quickly and I went on, "I thought perhaps we should have brought you home when you tripped, but you insisted on coming to have some ice cream."

"I — I —"

"You felt sick just now," I interrupted, "just as we were getting close to where we're going, so we stepped into this alley, in case you needed to throw up."

Dudley looked around, at the alley surrounding us. At me, smiling down on him. At Harry, who was smirking at him on the other side of me, He heaved himself to his feet. "We were just in the alley in front of your house," he declared.

"Don't you think that's impossible?" I asked. "How could we have gotten all the way from Little Whinging to London in a fraction of a second?"  
"We're in _London_?" both Harry and Dudley exclaimed, then looked at each other. "Why're _you_ surprised?" Dudley asked Harry.

"I'm not surprised," Harry said. "I was saying so, not asking."

"Let's go," I said, leading them out of the alley, "We've haven't got a lot of time." We walked down the street (which was in fact Charing Cross Road) to a place where a book store and a record store stood side by side. "Here we are," I said, pointing.

"A _book_ store," Dudley said, disappointed. "I thought we were going for ice cream!"

"Look harder," I said to him. "You too, Harry — concentrate on the space between the shops." Harry began staring as well.

"I see it," he said after a few moments. "Wow, that's amazing!"

"What? What??" Dudley kept saying. "I don't —" he stopped, with a gurgle, as the two shops began to move apart, revealing a small, grubby shop between them, with a sign above the door that read:

**The Leaky Cauldron**

I steered both boys into the pub; it was dark and dingy, with a dozen or so people scattered about the place, drinking from bottles or mugs. Once a few of the regulars saw it was me, however, things brightened up considerably.

"Hey, it's Jimmy!"

"Jimmy-boy, how are yeh?"

"How's it goin', Jim?"

I'd cultivated a presence in the Leaky Cauldron over the past few years, anticipating the day when I'd be walking through the place to the entrance of Diagon Alley along with Harry Potter. If people knew me, they would be more likely to accept that Harry was who I said he was. It was also going to start a chain reaction in the Wizarding World, once word of his presence here got around.

I was waving and shaking hands, greeting people I hadn't seen in some time (it had been a couple of months since my last visit). I ended with shaking Tom the barman's hand, the bald, toothless proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron. "What've you been up to these days, Jimmy?" Tom asked me, grinning toothlessly.

"Tom, I'd like to introduce you to a very special young man," I said, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder, startling him slightly. "This is Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived."

"Bless my soul!" Tom exclaimed, looking at Harry with great interest. "It certainly is an honor to meet you, Mr. Potter!" He reached over the bar, his hand extended, and after a moment Harry reached out and shook it.

There was a small eruption of people as everyone within earshot of my comment came over to meet Harry, and motioned others to join them.

"I'm Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter," an older lady introduced herself to Harry. "I just can't believe I finally get to meet you!"

"I'm just so proud, Mr. Potter — just so proud," another older warlock said, beaming at him. "We'll never forget what you've done."

"So delighted to meet you, Mr. Potter! I'm Dedalus Diggle."

Harry stared at him a moment. "I think we met before," he said, looking closely at the little wizard. "You bowed to me once, in a shop."

"So I did, so I did!" Diggle said gleefully. "Did you hear that?" he said loudly, looking around at the others crowded around. "He remembers me!"

This would probably go on for hours if I let it, so I said, "Sorry, folks, we've got some business to attend to in Diagon Alley." I dropped two Galleons on the bar. "Tom, get everyone a round of drinks, on me." There were murmurs of pleasure and thanks. The Galleons would be good for at least two rounds, depending on how generous Tom was with the refreshments.

It also hadn't escaped my notice that Dudley was watching everything that was going on, from the people shaking Harry's hand and calling him Mr. Potter, to the thanks and praise they were heaping upon him. He looked rather shaken, however, as if he didn't understand what was going on. I gathered both boys up and led them through the pub to the back, where we went into a small, walled courtyard.

"What is this?" Harry was looking around in disbelief. "Is _this_ Diagon Alley??" Dudley said nothing — I figured he was still in shock from the Apparition.

"Not yet," I said, taking out my wand and tapping a certain brick in the wall three times with the tip. The brick I tapped began to quiver, then wiggle; as we watched, a hole appeared in the wall, growing larger and larger until it formed an archway. Above the archway, a stone sign had formed with the words

_**Diagon Alley**_

written on it. "_This_ is Diagon Alley," I said, gesturing both boys inside. On the other side of the archway, a cobbled street led away, turning out of sight a few doors down.

"Whoa," both Harry and Dudley said, trying to look everywhere at once. Nearby was a cauldron shop, with a dizzying array of cauldrons, of all sizes, stacked outside it. Harry walked over to a large, black cauldron that was at least five feet in diameter. "This one looks almost big enough for Dudley," he joked.

Dudley stopped, looking terrified. "I — I — promise I w-won't tell them anything!" he said weakly, looking behind him as if he might try to run back into the pub. "They — they were going to make me tell them!"

"Relax, Dudley," I said mildly. "No one's going to hurt you."

"Then why did you bring me here?" Dudley moaned. "Aren't you planning to eat me, for trying to get Harry in trouble?"

"Why would we eat want to eat you?" Harry snorted. "Other than the fact that you'd make a pretty filling meal?"

"Ha-ha," Dudley said, bitterly. "Dad told Mum that you're a freak, that you do freakish stuff like magic, like witches. I know that witches eat kids."

Harry and I looked at each other and laughed. "Those are fairy tales, Dudley," I said, "like Hansel and Gretel. They aren't true."

"Course you'd say that," Dudley countered, "if you were going to lure me into that pot."

I casually took out my wand and pointed it at Dudley, who promptly turned end-over-end into the air, dangling by his ankle. He began screaming, but I flicked my wand once again and his screams went silent. A few people walking by looked at us curiously, but I gave them a long-suffering and said, "Boys will be boys." They chuckled, nodded, and moved on. Harry watched all this in utter fascination.

I flicked my wand once more, and Dudley turned upright and dropped to the ground, landing on his ample backside. Groaning, he looked up at me as I said, "I don't have to lure you anywhere, Dudley. If I wanted you in the pot, you'd be in there. You're here because I wanted you to see that what your parents are telling you about magic isn't true. Witches and wizards don't eat children. Well, hags do," I admitted, "but they aren't allowed to in Britain, any more."

"Now listen up, Dudley," I said, seriously. "If your parents never told you this, Harry is a wizard. His mother, your mum's sister, was a witch. His parents died when he was a baby, and he was sent to live with your parents and you."

"I knew his parents died," Dudley muttered, rubbing his bum. "Mum tells him that all the time, that we're doing him a favor by taking care of him."

"It's no favor," Harry corrected him, tartly. "Your mum and dad are getting paid to take care of me."

Dudley digested that bit of information for a moment. "Good," he said, nastily. "It's a lot of bother — they _should_ get paid for it."

Harry snorted in disgust. He looked at me. "Are you _sure_ we shouldn't eat him?" he asked, and Dudley's eyes grew fearful for a moment, before he caught on Harry was kidding. He stuck his tongue out at Harry, who returned the gesture.

"Enough, boys," I commanded. "Now here's the deal," I told Dudley, also for Harry's benefit. "We're here to get a present for Harry's birthday I promised him. And to show there's no hard feelings," I added, "I'm going to get a present for you as well, Dudley — a magical present."

I noticed that Harry's mouth fell open, but he closed it without saying anything. He just stood there, looking at me as if I'd lost all my sense.

"No kidding?" Dudley said, stunned at such news. "What is it?"

"You'll see soon enough," I said, then gestured for both of them to follow me. "Come on — let's go get that ice cream first."

We walked down to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, roughly halfway to the end of Diagon Alley, just a few shops before Gringotts Wizarding Bank, and ordered three triple-decker ice cream sundaes, with three kinds of ice cream, four toppings, and five kinds of nuts. Each one was stacked so impossibly high it had to be held up by magic — probably a series of Levitation Charms. Dudley's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when Florean Fortescue himself, a stout, jolly man with a red nose, brought them out. But by the time I'd eaten the first layer of my sundae, Dudley had polished off his entire dessert, and announced he was ready for another.

Amused, I had Fortescue make him another one, while Harry hid behind his in embarrassment at his cousin, barely finishing his own by the time Dudley was scraping the bottom of his second sundae and looking as if he were ready for another.

Time was flying by. I dropped four Galleons onto the table in payment (plus a generous tip) and said, "It's time we went and picked up your present, Harry." Harry jumped up immediately, but I held up a hand. "Before we do that, however, there is a minor detail to take care of."

"What is it?" Harry asked impatiently.

"Can I have one of these?" Dudley asked, pointing to one of the Galleons on the table.

"No," I said to Dudley. To Harry I said, "There's a spell on you that will notify people whenever you do magic with a wand."

"You mean my parents?" Dudley asked.

"No," I said again to Dudley.

"You mean the Ministry," Harry said. It wasn't quite a question. He'd put quite a lot of facts together over the last year, just from the books and periodicals I had. I would have to start getting the _Daily Prophet_ as well, to keep him abreast of the current Wizarding news.

"Right," I said, taking out my wand. "I'm going to remove that enchantment so you'll be able to practice with your wand after you get it."

"Can I have a wand?" Dudley asked.

"No," I said once more to Dudley. "Stand still, Harry," I looked around, making sure no one was listening, and softly intoned the words, "_Abduco et oblittero hanc magus obses vestigium dere veneficus_." This was the spell that would specifically remove the Trace enchantment from Harry. There was a soft green glow around him for a moment, and he shuddered for a second, as if a cold wind had blown over him.

I had made sure no one else was listening as I cast the spell; this was considered almost as big a crime, in Wizarding circles, as using the Unforgivable Curses. However, the only benefit of having the Trace was for the Ministry, since only they were allowed to keep track of underage wizards.

"Is that it?" Harry said, looking down at himself. "Is it gone?"

"It's gone," I said. "Let's go get your wand."

We walked down to Ollivander's, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. I always smiled when I read that sign, wondering if the abbreviation meant something other than it normally did. The shop itself was rather shabby and not very big; it was long and narrow, much like the thousands of boxes stacked floor to ceiling along the walls. Other than a spindly chair near the door, there was not much else in the place. I looked at Dudley and pointed to the chair, and he sat down.

"Good evening," a soft voice said. Both Harry and Dudley jumped; I heard a _crack_ as the chair snapped a leg under Dudley's weight. Ollivander had suddenly appeared out of the gloom at the back of the shop. He was a thin, elderly man, with a shock of flowing white hair and eyes that shone like twin moons, even in the dimness of late afternoon. "I was about to close shop — I'm glad you made it here before I did." He was looking at Harry, a strange expression on his face.

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Potter," he said softly, moving slowly toward Harry, who looked back at me but held his ground. "It seems you are a bit early, however, unless time has passed more quickly than I expected. You _are_ supposed to begin wizard school next year, aren't you?"

"Er —" Harry said, "Well, I —"

"Harry's going through a bit of advanced training," I said smoothly, answering for him. "He's at the point where a wand of his own is necessary to continue."

"I see," Ollivander said thoughtfully. The idea of Harry buying a wand a year early didn't appear to bother him very much. "There could be repercussions, you understand…"

"I've taken care of things with the Ministry," I told him.

"Well, the less I know about that, the better," Ollivander said, waving off any further comment. "Now, then, Mr. Potter," he said to Harry. "Let us find a wand for you."

He pulled out a tape measure and asked for Harry's wand hand (Harry was right-handed), then left the tape to measure Harry on its own, talking as he perused various stacks of wands. "Every Ollivander's wand has a core of a powerful magical substance. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and dragon heartstrings. No two Ollivander's wands are quite the same, just as no two phoenixes, unicorns or dragons are quite the same. Of course," he looked back at Harry, "You will never get as good results with another wandmaker's wand."

The tape measure was moving around Harry, measuring every part of him, as Ollivander pulled various wands from his stacks, muttering as he went. "I remember your mother coming in here for her first wand, it seems like only yesterday. Willow, ten and quarter inches long, swishy—very nice for Charms work. Your father's, on the other hand, was mahogany, eleven inches, and pliable. Very good for Transfiguration. Such memories, such memories…" Ollivander sighed, falling silent.

I watched Dudley staring in fascination as all this took place. Was he hooked yet? Only time would tell, since I was resisting the temptation to cheat and read his thoughts, though I might use Leglimency on him later.

The tape measure suddenly crumpled to the floor, and Ollivander handed Harry a wand. "Try this one, Mr. Potter. Beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches, nice and flexible. Just give it a wave and we'll see what happens."

Harry took the wand slowly, looking a bit apprehensive, and started to wave it, but Ollivander took it from him almost immediately.

"Perhaps this one — maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try it."

Harry tried again to wave it, but once again Ollivander snatched it from his grasp almost immediately. "Tricky," Ollivander mused. "Here's one — ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, give it a wave."

Harry kept trying, but Ollivander would hand him wand after wand, only to snatch them out of his hand after only a moment. The pile of boxes around them kept growing, but nothing unusual was happening except Harry was getting more and more frustrated, and Dudley was starting to look uncomfortable, perhaps because of his bellyful of ice cream.

"Unusual customer, eh?" Ollivander smiled. His great silvery eyes shone with interest and curiosity. "Don't worry, Mr. Potter, we'll get you a match here — hmm, I wonder…" Ollivander returned with one last box. "Here it is, an unusual combination — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

He handed it to Harry, who looked surprised when he took it, as if this wand was different from all the others before it. He raised it above his head and brought it swishing down: a stream of red and gold sparks shot out of its tip, lighting up the darkened room with dancing shadows for a moment.

I laughed in delight, and Ollivander cheered, "Oh bravo! Very good indeed, yes. And hmm, also quite curious… curious…"

"_What's_ curious, sir?" Harry asked.

Ollivander looked at him steadily, his great eyes still shining even in the near darkness of the shop. "It's curious, Mr. Potter, that the phoenix that gave the feather for your wand gave another feather — just one other. The wand made with that feather is the brother of your wand, and it is the very wand that gave you — _that_." He pointed to the scar on Harry's forehead. Harry gulped.

"I am sorry to say that I sold that wand," Ollivander went on, slowly, remembering. "Yes, thirteen and a half inches, made of yew. Another unusual combination. But it is how these things occur. The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. I expect we will see great things from you, just as we did from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Terrible things, of course — terrible, terrible things, but great ones nonetheless."

Ollivander looked at me. "I do not believe I've ever sold you a wand, sir."

"How would you remember?" Harry asked. "You've been selling wands since 382 B.C."

Ollivander smiled. "Well, not I, personally, but the previous owners of this shop, in its various locations across Britain, in one form or another." His eyes glowed a bit more brightly as he added, "I do remember every wand I've ever sold, though. Every single wand, Mr. Potter. That is why I remember the brother of your wand, the one I sold to You-Know-Who, and the wands I sold to your father and mother — you have her eyes, you know," Ollivander said, staring at Harry, who looked away after a moment, uncomfortably. "I'm sorry," Ollivander said softly. "Old men tend to babble a bit."

"Who's 'You-Know-Who?'" Dudley asked. No one answered.

After a moment, Ollivander looked at me once more. "I've had this peculiar feeling ever since you entered my shop," he told me. "Would you mind allowing me to examine your wand?"

"Certainly," I said, handing it to him. Ollivander held it in his hands a moment, letting his fingers brush against it, then swished it in the air a few times.

"Very interesting," he mused. "The wood is yew, twelve inches, and very strong. I am not certain what the core is, however."

"It is a single thestral hair," I replied.

"A _thestral_ hair?" Ollivander looked surprised, even upset, by what I'd told him. "No wandmaker I know of would use such a substance for a wand core. It is considered to be a very bad omen."

"I made the wand myself," I told him.

"Ah, so you know Wandlore, then?"

"Some," I nodded. "Enough to make myself a wand that would choose me."

Ollivander was nodding in agreement; his demeanor now showed a new appreciation of my skills. "There are few wandmakers who can be honest enough with themselves to do so. I am glad that, as you say, your wand does your bidding. The wand chooses the wizard, as I said earlier."

"It works well enough," I said, putting it away. "We should be going, so you can close up shop. How much for the wand?"

"What about me?" Dudley demanded. "I want a wand, too!"

"It wouldn't do you any good," I explained patiently. "The magic is in the person, not in the wand."

"I'm sorry," Ollivander said, giving Dudley a pitying look. "Are you a Squib, young man?" Dudley blinked at him, a confused look on his face.

"A Muggle," I said, then added, as Ollivander started in surprise. "They're cousins," I nodded toward Harry. "I brought him along for a treat."

"How gracious of you," Ollivander said diplomatically. "Seven Galleons for Mr. Potter's wand."

We left Ollivander's shop, walking rapidly. It was dusk; the sunlight was dying fast, and I wanted to get Harry and Dudley back to Little Whinging sooner than later. Dudley, however, was insisting on making a scene.

"I want a wand!" he whined, pretending to start crying. This was one of his favorite tricks to pull on Vernon and Petunia, who always caved in to Dudley's tantrums. "Where's the present you promised me?"

"In my pocket," I said curtly. "Where it'll stay if you keep whining like a baby."

"I'll tell my dad and mum all about this place!" Dudley threatened.

"And so your father will kick Harry out of his house, and he'll have to go live somewhere else," I explained, pointing out the consequences for him. "And so the extra money your parents get won't be coming in any more, and that'll be your fault, and you won't get any extra presents any more. And so you won't get a chance to come here again, or get any magical presents at all. Is that the way you want things to be?" I asked him. Dudley said nothing. We arrived at the entrance to Diagon Alley and stepped through, into the courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron.

"On the other hand," I told Dudley, as the archway closed, becoming part of the brick walls surrounding us, "you can keep your mouth shut, tell your parents nothing, and get — this." I handed him a small, black, flat box.

Instinctively sensing a present, Dudley took the book, tearing away the ribbon holding it shut, then opened the box. "What's this?" he said, in a disappointed tone, lifting two black leather gloves out of the box.

"They're Shadow Gloves," I told him. "Put them on."

"They're too small!" Dudley protested.

"They'll fit," I informed him. "They adjust to your hands." Dudley pulled on the gloves, then stared at them, an unsettled expression on his face.

"They feel weird," he said. "They're tingling."

I pointed to the only other object in the courtyard, an old dustbin surrounded by a few weeds growing up through cracks in the floor. "Go stand by that bin," I said. "Harry, stand next to him." Both boys walked over to the trash can.

"Dudley, I want you to close your eyes." Dudley did so. "When I said 'now,' Harry is going to pick up the lid. I want you to reach in and take out something at random."

"Why?" Dudley asked. "It's just a dustbin!"

"Just do it," I said, a bit crossly. "Get ready —" Harry reached for the lid, watching me, but I shook my head no. "Get set —" Dudley's hand poised over the lid; Harry watched it, expecting to see Dudley's hand smack into the metal.

"Now," I said, and Dudley's hand plunged down, _through_ the metal lid. Harry gasped in surprise.

"Shut it, you," Dudley snarled, his eyes still closed. "This is gross."

"Look at your hand, Dudley!" Harry whispered. "It's through the lid!"

Dudley opened his eyes, swore, and jerked his hand out, holding an empty cardboard box of Berti Bott's Every Flavor Beans. He looked at the box, then checked inside it for any leftover candy. Harry made a face of disgust.

"It was gross, sticking your hand into a dustbin, but you were going to _eat_ something you pulled out of it?" he said to Dudley, revolted.

"Come to think of it," Dudley said, beginning to look a bit green himself, "my stomach isn't feeling so good." He put his hands on his stomach, then squealed in fright and jerked them away as they sank _into_ his abdomen. Then, realizing what he'd just done, he stuck a hand back into himself, feeling around a bit, then pulled out a ten-pence piece, holding it up to examine it. "I wondered where that'd got off to," he muttered. Harry, if possible, looked even more revolted at seeing this.

Dudley looked at me, his eyes bright with excitement. "This is the coolest present I've ever gotten!" he said. "Thank you!"

"Whoa," Harry said, a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "That's the first time _those_ words ever left your lips, isn't it?"

"Time's wasting," I said hurriedly. "It's nearly dark in Little Whinging, and I promised I'd have you both home before then. It'll take too long to go back through the Leaky Cauldron again, so we're leaving from here." I held out an arm for each of them.

"What if I can't hold on, with these gloves?" Dudley wanted to know.

"You'll be able to," I said, "as long as you're concentrating on holding my arm rather than passing through it." No sooner had both Harry and Dudley taken my arms than I spun on my heel and sent us on our way back home.

We reappeared on Privet Drive south of the Dursley house, in an area where the shrubbery was thick enough we couldn't be seen from the nearby houses. Dudley stumbled once again as we appeared, but didn't fall. He turned to look at me and said, "Thanks for the ice cream," then turned to Harry. "We'd better get back before Dad and Mum lock us out."

"Harry'll catch up," I told him. "I need a word." Dudley nodded and lumbered off toward his house.

I turned to Harry. "I have one other gift for you," I said, producing a small, black pouch from my jacket pocket. "To keep your wand and other stuff in," I said, handing it to him.

"Thanks," Harry said. "Looks a bit small, though." The pouch was only about eight inches long, not even as long as his wand.

"It'll fit," I said. "Give it a try." Harry looked at me, skeptical, but took his wand and pushed the tip into the opening. He watched in surprise as the entire wand, plus his hand, disappeared into the pouch. I urged him to reach in as far as he could, and his face grew incredulous as he inserted most of his arm into the mouth of the bag.

"Wizard space?" he asked, and I nodded.

"Plus," I said, as he pulled his arm free, taking the pouch and pulling the drawstring tight. "When you tie these strings into a knot, only you will be able to untie it. The strings can't be broken, cut, or burned." I hefted the pouch, then handed it to Harry. "In case Dudley or his parents decide to go snooping in your stuff. Keep all your valuables in it."

"Thanks," Harry said again. "I better get home, before they go mental." He waved and headed for number four. I Apparated to my house, appearing on the west side near the door leading to the library, in case anyone was watching. It had been a long day. I sighed and trudged around the corner of the house toward the front door.

However, I found someone waiting for me there: a tall, thin white-haired man with a long, crooked nose and a tall, pointed hat, wearing deep blue robes. "Good evening," he said politely. "I'm Albus Dumbledore. I believe we have some business to discuss."


	4. Teatime with Albus

**Chapter 4 – Teatime with Albus**

_That didn't take long_, I mused, as Professor Dumbledore stood on my doorstep, a calm yet somber expression on his face. I had been expecting a visit from the Hogwarts headmaster after accompanying Harry to Diagon Alley — his protector and erstwhile mentor had been absent from the young wizard's life for nearly nine years now. Though, I had to admit to myself, I hadn't expected it quite this soon — I hadn't even made it home from Diagon Alley yet! But — my guard was already up; I knew full well, from past experience in other realities, just how good Dumbledore was at getting into your head and discovering your innermost thoughts. Most wizards were open books to Dumbledore, and he didn't hesitate to take advantage of that fact.

Not that I thought he was _wrong_ to do so, mind you, at least as far as Harry's welfare was concerned. By and large, Albus Dumbledore was one of the good guys, dead sure. He'd single-handedly organized the Order of the Phoenix, in response to Voldemort's first rise to power, and had more or less successfully fought him and his Death Eaters off for eleven years without Ministry backing. During this time, however, both the Order, and Wizarding Britain at large, had taken some significant casualties themselves: Gideon and Fabian Prewett, Edgar Bones, and Frank and Alice Longbottom were just a few of those who suffered or were killed by Voldemort or Death Eaters. The betrayal and murders of James and Lily Potter would have been a major blow to the Order if it hadn't also resulted in Voldemort's disappearance and supposed death, back on Hallowe'en 1981.

Only a very few people still suspected that Voldemort was not completely dead, Dumbledore foremost among them. Most of the wizards I had talked to over the past decade believed him gone forever, and believed that Harry Potter had been chosen, somehow, to stop him. A few people, who knew of Sibyll Trelawney's prophecy about Harry and Voldemort, believed he would return. Oddly, Trelawney herself wasn't one of them, since she didn't remember making it. I had talked to her a few times, in Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, disguised as an itinerant wizard interested in Divination. She was quite content to let me buy her glasses of sherry and ramble on about her craft, letting it drop that her great-great-grandmother, Cassandra Trelawney, was a Seer like herself.

And now, I had "whistled up the devil" by appearing with Harry Potter in tow. I'd known years ago that the headmaster and I would have to talk, sooner or later, about Harry; I wanted to find out how much my helping Harry get a leg up on magic and overall knowledge of the Wizarding world was going to put me at odds with Albus Dumbledore. He was still standing on my doorstep, just as I'd met him, waiting for my reply.

"It's very nice to meet you, Professor," I said, extending my hand to him. He took it, smiling, and we shook; I noticed he had a firm grip (as usual) for being something like 109 if I recalled his birth year (1881) correctly — which I did. "Would you like to come inside, where it's cooler, and chat?"

"Yes, thank you," Dumbledore said. I produced my house key and ushering the Hogwarts headmaster inside.

My house, number 24, Magnolia Crescent, was similar to the Dursleys' on Privet Drive, being constructed around the same time by the same builders. My house was a bit larger, however, being longer front-to-back. I invited Dumbledore into the living room, offering him a seat in a plush old recliner I liked, while I sat on a divan nearby.

"Would you like some tea?" I asked politely, wondering how circumspect he wanted to be before we got down to the nitty-gritty of our business.

"It is a bit late," Dumbledore mused, "but yes, some tea would be wonderful, thank you."

I smiled and produced my wand. On the first flick, a wooden table appeared next to us. With the second flick a tray with tea service for two appeared, complete with a creamer, lemon, and cubes of sugar. There was also a plate of biscuits and petits fours in case Dumbledore wanted a nosh. A final flourish with my wand and the teapot poured steaming amber liquid into Dumbledore's cup, then into mine. I added cream and sugar to my cup, while Dumbledore added a couple of cubes of sugar to his, then took one of the petit fours, taking a nibble from it and sighing contentedly.

"Quite delicious," he murmured, settling back to sip slowly at his tea. "I'm afraid I've developed something of a sweet tooth in past few years."

"The petit fours came from Honeydukes," I mentioned. "I was there a week ago or so and picked up a tin. It's hard to keep them on the cupboards, they're so good."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "I was rather surprised," he remarked, choosing to waste no time in getting to his reason for being here, "when I received an owl today telling me that Harry Potter was in the Leaky Cauldron, being introduced around by a gentleman I had never heard of before. It was an intriguing letter, I must say."

"I'm sure it was," I agreed, setting down my cup and looking at Dumbledore directly. "Of course, you yourself have not seen nor heard anything about Harry in the past nine years, ever since you placed him on the Dursleys' doorstep."

"That is not completely accurate," Dumbledore corrected. "I have received information on Harry, from time to time, and the situation at his aunt and uncle's home. It has been somewhat difficult for him, but overall he has had a tolerable stay there."

"And so," I asked, deciding to be blunt, "what is the business between you and me you mentioned earlier?"

Dumbledore put his cup of tea on the table, then steepled his fingers. "I hoped to discover how you learned where Harry was and why you decided to take him to Diagon Alley," he said, seriously. "I would also like to know what other dealings you plan to have with him."

"I see," I said, gazing levelly at him. "And in what way does this concern _you_, exactly? You've never talked to Harry — he doesn't even know who you are, even if you know him. I, on the other hand, have lived in this house for nearly a decade. I've seen Harry around in the neighborhood, over the years, as with any number of people who live around here. Harry and I just happen to have a bit more in common than we do with the Muggles surrounding us."

"Are you saying that it's a coincidence that you and Harry live so close to each other?" Dumbledore asked. "That seems quite unlikely, I must say — Little Whinging is not considered a very hospitable place for wizarding folk."

"Like Mrs. Figg?" I suggested. Dumbledore made no response. "I've noticed her around," I continued. "Her and her cats, the ones that are part Kneazle. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd think she was a Squib, or at the very least, a Muggle who has had prior dealings with wizards."

"You are quite astute," Dumbledore admitted. "Mrs. Figg is a Squib. I asked her to move here, shortly after Harry joined the Dursley household, to keep an eye on him until he was ready to attend Hogwarts.

"That answers my first question about your acquaintance with Harry — you both simply happen to live near each other, a most interesting coincidence," Dumbledore said. He and I were maintaining a constant eye contact during this — I had no doubt he was employing Leglimency, trying to determine how truthful I was being in all this. So far, it seemed, I'd given him no reason to doubt me, beyond the sheer improbability of a wizard choosing to live in a community like Little Whinging, Surrey. My Occlumency was holding up quite well.

"However," Dumbledore continued, "I fail to see why you would want to bring Harry to Diagon Alley, exposing him to potential danger —"

"What danger are you referring to?" I interrupted, a surprised expression on my face. "Who would want to bring harm to a ten-year-old boy?"

Dumbledore was silent for several seconds. "There are some," he said carefully, "even today, almost a decade after Lord Voldemort's apparent death, who might wish Harry harm."

"You said 'apparent death,'" I pointed out, "with regard to Voldemort," and I noted Dumbledore's interest perk up at my unhesitating use of the name. "Do you have reason to believe he might not be dead?"

"It would be premature at this time to say that Voldemort is alive, with inadequate evidence to support that claim," Dumbledore replied, managing to be both prevaricating and accurate. "But there are those among his followers who may believe that he will somehow return to them, as he claimed to have gone further than anyone toward defeating death."

"But haven't his followers all renounced him?" I pointed out. "Didn't many of them claim they had been Imperiused? And the ones who didn't ended up in Azkaban?"

"There are a few of his followers still in Azkaban," Dumbledore concurred. "Bellatrix Lestrange, for one. Bartemius Crouch, Junior was as well, until his death there some years ago."

"I notice you did not mention Sirius Black," I said, keeping my face and thoughts carefully neutral. I wanted to know what Dumbledore thought of the idea that Black was a Death Eater. "He is still in Azkaban as well, isn't he?"

"He is," Dumbledore replied. "But Sirius Black was sent to Azkaban for the murder of Peter Pettigrew, not for being a Death Eater. He did not have the Dark Mark."

"Do you think Black murdered Peter Pettigrew, Professor?" I asked him.

Dumbledore stared into my eyes. "I believe he went to confront Pettigrew, for what reason I cannot say —" that was an equivocation, I knew — I believed Dumbledore knew exactly why Sirius went to find Peter. "But I cannot believe he would have killed Peter without good reason, as far as what he believed. Under Veritaserum, we might have found out the truth. However," Dumbledore sighed, perhaps unconsciously, "when Ministry Aurors captured him, he did not even bother to deny that he had killed poor Peter." _Poor Peter_? I thought, and Dumbledore blinked.

"However," he went on, a moment later, "we are straying away from the current question, which is why you brought Harry to Diagon Alley."

"Perhaps you may recall," I said, with some tartness in my voice, "that today is Harry's tenth birthday. I brought him and his cousin Dudley to Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour for a treat."

"There are any number of Muggle ice cream emporiums available near Little Whinging," Dumbledore pointed out, his voice deliberately patient. "You might have patronized any one of them. Bringing Harry to Diagon Alley suggests you had a specific purpose in doing so."

I smiled. I'd let just enough duplicity show in my feelings, enough for Dumbledore not to accept my explanation at face value. I hoped my answer would appeal to his ego enough for him to believe it. "True, I did have another reason, Professor. It was, simply, to see how much attention you were paying to his activities, if any."

"I'm not certain I understand," Dumbledore said, after several moments.

"Harry's aunt and uncle found him on their doorstep back on the morning of November second, 1981," I recalled for him. "There was a letter with Harry, a letter written by you, to Petunia, describing some of what had happened to Harry's parents, and asking her and her husband to care for Harry as if he were their own.

"I had just moved into my house the previous day, and I was having a morning walk," I went on, being sure Dumbledore and I continued to make eye contact. I wanted him to have every opportunity to determine if I was being truthful. "I watched as the Dursleys removed a bundle from their front doorstep.

"Normally, I would not have bothered to see what was afoot with Muggles, but I noticed that the bundle was moving. A detection spell revealed that, as well as three Muggles in the house, two adults and a young boy, there was also another boy, a wizard. I deduced he had been in the bundle left on their doorstep. I cast a Disillusionment Charm on myself and entered the house, where I discovered the child was none other than Harry Potter and that _you_ had left a note with him. I listened to the woman read the note, and learned that Harry's parents had been killed by Voldemort — whom, incidentally, your note claimed had left England, _not_ that he was dead — and that magical protection had been put on Harry as long as he was allowed to stay in the Dursley house.

"But Vernon Dursley wasn't interested in any of that, Professor," I told him, flatly. "He intended to call the authorities, have the boy taken away to an orphanage, even over his wife's objections. As a wizard of some means, I took it upon myself to find a way for Harry to remain in the house, which was obviously your intention."

"And how did you do that?" Dumbledore inquired.

"I provided an incentive to the Dursleys, in the form of a monthly payment, which they would receive for as long as Harry remained in their home, and which increased each year. Beginning tomorrow, they will receive 950 pounds per month to take care of Harry."

"That is quite a sum of money for a wizard to provide for each month," Dumbledore said, sounding impressed.

"It would be," I agreed, "if I were the one providing it. As it turns out, however, the firm Dursley works for, through a minor misunderstanding in its human resources department, is making the payments instead."

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "A most interesting coincidence," he said, again. "And fortunate for him, indeed, if the situation is as you've explained it." That subtle barb, meant to elicit an emotional response, instead kept me carefully on guard. "And so," he went on, not to be distracted, "What other places did you and Harry visit in Diagon Alley?"

"We also stopped by Ollivander's," I replied.

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up. "Indeed? You must realize, of course, that Harry cannot use a wand outside of school until he turns seventeen. Indeed, he cannot even legally purchase one, according to Wizarding law, until he turns eleven. You did not attempt to purchase one for Harry, did you? Or allow him to purchase one himself?"

I shrugged. "Mr. Ollivander would not have sold us one, would he?"

Dumbledore gave me a curious look. "Mr. Ollivander is first and foremost, a wandmaker. It is a rare gift, and men like him are highly regarded in Wizarding communities across the world. If he saw a reason to provide a wizard with a wand, I have no doubt he would not hesitate to do so. So I will ask again, Mr. Monroe: did you or Harry purchase a wand for him at Ollivander's shop?"

This time I decided to level with the professor. "Ollivander sold him a wand," I said. "A holly wand with a phoenix feather core. Ollivander told us that its brother was the wand that gave Harry his scar."

"Was it indeed?" Dumbledore looked very interested in this tidbit of news. I could guess why.

"Whatever happened to Voldemort's wand after his disappearance?" I asked.

"It was never found," Dumbledore said.

"That seems unusual, wouldn't you agree?" I persisted. "If Voldemort attacked James and Lily Potter at their home, and his Killing Curse rebounded upon him due to Lily's protection on Harry, the wand would have been there, unless it was destroyed by the spell's rebounding, and that seems unlikely. So, what could have happened to his wand — did someone take it from the home afterwards, or was it somehow lost amid the wreckage?"

"We may never know," Dumbledore said. I had come to take this turn of phrase as meaning, _I'm not saying what I know_.

"In any event," Dumbledore went on, a tone of authority now in his voice, "I hope you impressed upon Harry the importance of being responsible with his wand."

"He's aware that he's not supposed to use it outside of school or before he turns eleven," I said, my voice as serious as his. I kept my thoughts carefully guarded here; no point in giving the headmaster reason to think Harry would violate those restrictions. Dumbledore nodded and set his cup on the table, then stood.

"Do you have any other trips planned with Harry?" he asked, his tone diffident, though I sensed an undercurrent of tension; Dumbledore didn't want me being seen around Wizarding Britain with Harry, that was clear enough, even though he couldn't stop me from living where I was in close proximity to him. I had the feeling that Mrs. Figg would be checking up on both me and Harry often in the coming year.

"Nothing until next year, after the letter comes from your school, informing him he's been accepted at Hogwarts, and the list of things he'll need from Diagon Alley," I replied.

"You needn't worry about that," Dumbledore said. "I will have someone deliver the letter and list personally, and escort Harry to Diagon Alley to purchase them."

"Will you be paying for his books and such, then?" I asked, not letting on I already knew how that was to be handled.

"There will be no need," Dumbledore said, dismissively. "Harry was left a tidy sum of money by his parents — I will have Hagrid bring him to Gringotts to obtain some for his purchases."

"Hagrid," I repeated. "He works at the school doesn't, he?"

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded. "He is the caretaker of our grounds, and Keeper of the Keys for Hogwarts. He has been there for many years, and I regard him as utterly reliable in the matter of our students' protection, and welfare. I would, in fact, trust him with my life." He stepped toward the door, then turned back to me. "You needn't worry about him taking proper care of Harry," he said. "I trust you will have no concerns when it comes time for Hagrid to escort Harry to pick up his books and other school items."

"I believe I won't," I agreed. Dumbledore bowed slightly, and we touched hands briefly; then he went out the door, into the darkness, and was suddenly gone, as if he'd never been there.

***

It was nearly a week before I saw Harry again. I was tempted, several times during that period, to pop over to his house, invisible, and see what was going on, but I resisted the temptation to hover. Harry knew where I was, and short of Dumbledore kidnapping him (which I didn't seriously consider), or Vernon and Petunia locking him in his room (which I _did_ seriously consider), I figured he would be over when he was ready.

Until Harry returned, I went about my normal routine, taking some time to renew and improve the enchantments around my house and yard that would let me know when any of Mrs. Figg's cats were around. I also added protection spells for wizards, wondering if perhaps any old members of the Order might come around. We hadn't read about any of them until the later books, but that didn't mean they weren't already doing things for Dumbledore now, since he obviously suspected that Voldemort was still alive. I also remembered to start a subscription to the _Daily Prophet_, setting up a delivery point in my back yard, consisting of a post equipped with an owl perch, a holder for water and some Auntie Perinno's Owl Treats, and a pair of magically animated hands, which would remove the paper and place the Knuts in the post owl's payment pouch.

At the moment, even though I wasn't hearing from Harry, I expected this year to be the busiest one yet with regard to his training. Harry now had a fairly extensive knowledge of the Wizarding world, had memorized most basic spells through the first six Standard Book of Spells series, and a wand to begin his practical education. That he had come this far, in two years, with no way to actually practice wand-based magic until now, had done much to hone his wandless skills to a much higher level than most wizards ever achieved. I had watched him perform some spells, like _Alohomora _(which I had taught him to use on the library door entrance, rather than use his key), wandlessly. In a way, I could regret buying the wand for him, since it would mean the end of his wandless practice, but perhaps I could suggest he continue it, for occasions when his wand wasn't handy.

When I next saw Harry again, I was just finishing my evening meal a few days after talking to Dumbledore, when the bell I'd set up in the library rang, meaning someone had pulled the cord for attention. I went down to the library, expecting to see Harry, and found him there sitting in one of the chairs I'd placed to allow for casual reading. He was leaning forward, his head resting on his hands, looking down at the floor. He didn't move when I came into the library.

"You rang?" I said in a very deep voice, amusing myself as I thought about an old television show with a character that appeared and said the same line whenever the servant's bell-cord was pulled.

Harry didn't look up, or laugh. His demeanor suggested he was upset or at least unhappy. "How have you been?" I asked, in my normal voice.

"We had a visit from Professor Dumbledore," Harry replied, after a moment of silence.

"Oh." I wasn't exactly surprised to hear that, but I wondered what the headmaster might have to say to Vernon, Petunia, or Harry himself. "How was it?"

"Pretty bad," Harry said, looking up at me. "I've been grounded the past three days."

"Who grounded you?" I asked.

"Uncle Vernon."

"Why did he ground you?" I wanted to know.

"Because I wouldn't say I wouldn't come over here any more."

"And why doesn't he want you to come over here any more?"

"Professor Dumbledore told them he didn't have anything to do with you," Harry said, sitting up straighter in the chair. "He said he didn't know who you were or what you wanted with me. Uncle Vernon thinks you're doing something wrong, but I told them that you're helping me."

"But they probably don't want me helping you," I guessed.

"No, they don't," Harry agreed emphatically. "They wanted to know how you were helping me, and I said you were helping me learn stuff. That made Uncle Vernon pretty angry."

"It doesn't seem like it takes much to touch him off," I pointed out, needlessly.

"I dunno whether he's angrier at you or at Professor Dumbledore, though," Harry sighed. "The professor said that they shouldn't be taking money to take care of me, and Uncle Vernon told him it was none of his business. He told the professor to leave before he called the police."

"For all the good that would have done," I laughed. "Dumbledore could turn invisible and watch the police ransack the house to find him." Harry nodded.

"Anyway," Harry continued, "Professor Dumbledore said it was between you and them if they wanted to keep taking money from you, but that it was important for me to keep living there. He told my aunt that she understood why, and she nodded, like she did. That made Uncle Vernon even madder.

"Well, it got really confusing after that." Harry got up and took his wand out of his back pocket, then sat down again, holding it in his hands. "I asked the professor why I had to live there and he said it was for my protection, and Uncle Vernon said that I wasn't going to be allowed to come here anymore, and Aunt Petunia said that I shouldn't even want to, that you were probably trying to get me to trust you so you could betray me. And Dudley —" Harry gave me an odd look — "Dudley said something about you not being a bad guy, and Uncle Vernon yelled at him for saying it." He paused, shaking his head.

"It sounds like a pretty awful time," I said sympathetically. "So what finally happened?"

"Professor Dumbledore finally stood and said that he had to go, and that they should expect a letter to arrive about a week before my eleventh birthday telling me what was going to happen for school next year, and Uncle Vernon said that was already decided, that I would be going to Stonewall High for secondary school, and I said I wanted to go to Hogwarts. Well, that made Uncle Vernon even _more_ angry than he already was, and he said I wasn't going to any freak school.

"But no matter how mad Uncle Vernon got, the professor just smiled and said that it would be fine, that we had a whole year to think things through, and that we could see how things were then. And then he left, and I was locked in my room, where I've been for the past three days except for meals and a bathroom break at night, to get ready for bed," Harry finished, looking miserable. "I need to get away from them," he said, more to himself than to me, though he looked at me and added, "Do I really have to wait 'til I'm eleven to go to Hogwarts?"

"I'm afraid so," I told him. "But I assume you're not grounded any more, since you're here now."

Harry shrugged, suddenly angry. "Aunt Petunia was getting the wash ready — she normally has me do it, but I was washing the dishes — and she finds a _fifty-pound note_ in Dudley's pants pocket. Fifty pounds! Dudley told her some silly story about winning it at the mall the day before, because he was the ten-thousandth visitor. Then he looked me in the eye, and I could tell he was lying. I suppose that was a bit of Leglimency, wasn't it?" Harry looked at me.

"Probably," I said, "we've been practicing it for a while now. So go on," I urged him. "What happened after that?"

"Oh, Dudley said he'd planned to take her and Uncle Vernon out to a nice restaurant, his treat. He was even going to let _me_ go along, if you can believe it, but Aunt Petunia said I wouldn't be allowed to go, since I was grounded. And then she realizes I'll be home alone, and she couldn't reach Mrs. Figg, so they said I'd have to be out of the house while they were gone to eat dinner. So I came here," Harry finished, looking at the floor and in general projecting a very _poor me_ attitude. "My life stinks," he muttered, lapsing into a sullen silence.

"So," I said after nearly a minute of silence, letting my voice become mocking. "I suppose you're going to just give up on magic, then, and become plain old Harry Potter, and going to Muggle secondary school, then finding a job washing dishes somewhere."

"What?" Harry's head jerked up. "No! I can't go back now!"

"Well, you're acting like it's all over," I shrugged. "Maybe it is. Maybe you can't stand up to your aunt and uncle."

"_I can too_!" He yelled, and instinctively pointed his wand at me. My wand was in my hand a moment later, and as I gestured Harry's wand suddenly flew from his hand toward me, and I caught it easily.

"Don't point your wand at anyone unless you mean to use it," I told him, then walked over and handed it back to him. "You probably know what I did just now," I said, testing him.

"Disarming Charm," Harry said, "_Expelliarmus_. I could have blocked it with a Shield Charm, though."

"Yes," I nodded. "But a Shield Charm isn't that easy to form rapidly. It'll take some practice. But then —" and I looked meaningfully at him. "— that's why I got the wand for you, so you could practice. Not so you walk around moping that your cousin is buying his parents dinner with money he probably stole."

Harry managed to smile, a bit. "Maybe he'll choke on it."

"Well," I rolled my eyes. "Be careful what you wish for. If Dudley dies, you'll be the only child in their house, and they'll probably want to spoil you rotten, then."

Harry snickered. "I really _would_ run away, then!"

We spent the rest of the evening practicing some basic dueling spells. Harry had a lot of magical theory under his belt, now — practically all of the enchantments from the Basic Book of Spells series, and a bunch from other spell books that were somewhat more interesting than those on the Ministry-approved list. What he needed now was to practice, practice, practice! While I was by no means a master duelist, I had a pretty broad base of experiences to draw upon from the two decades I'd played the role of Harry himself, a lifetime ago in another universe. Finally, well after dark, I walked the few blocks with him over to Privet Drive, promising to continue the training the next time he came over. I had a feeling that Harry wasn't about to let anyone, not the Dursleys, not even Albus Dumbledore himself, stand in the way of him learning as much magic as possible. And, truth to tell, I felt that Dumbledore had something like that in mind when he arrived at the Dursley home, seemingly bent on separating us.

Harry and I spent the next weeks and months building his proficiency in spellcasting. Harry had a good intuitive feel for casting spells; one might have said he was a "natural" at it, and I sometimes wondered if that was the reason why he was able to learn so quickly, even without the extra training he had no opportunity to obtain, in the canon storyline.

I kept an even mix of Charms, Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts spells in our training, but Harry seemed to gravitate to Charms and DADA. He handled Transfiguration spells well, too, but they didn't seem to interest him as much. I wondered how much that would change if Harry found out that his father had become an Animagus even before he graduated from Hogwarts. I had managed to avoid the subject of his parents to this point, though I'd expected Harry to ask who "You-Know-Who" was. Neither that, nor the real cause of his parents' death, had been broached yet. Perhaps he didn't think I knew.

Harry did have some interesting things to say about the Dursleys, however, especially Dudley. Though Dudley's status in his gang had gone up quite a bit since his trip with us to Diagon Alley, as he was now able to afford new electronic games and gadgets from some unknown source of income, he had given up both Harry Hunting and Harry Tracking, to the puzzlement of his posse: Piers, Dennis, Malcolm and Gordon. Although, being on the receiving end of some of Dudley's wrath when they tried to bully Harry on their own, they rapidly got the message that Harry was now off-limits. I had my own theory on this, and it had to do with the pair of Shadow Gloves I'd given him, back on Harry's birthday. I imagined that he was using them for less than respectable reasons, which did not surprise me, any more than the Dursleys' extravagance with their monthly stipend, given for caring for Harry surprised me.

But, as long as Dudley was leaving Harry alone, and as long as the Dursleys let him out of the house long enough for him to come visit me for wand and spell training, I was going to let the sleeping dogs lie. There would be time enough to deal with Dudley's values while Harry was off at Hogwarts, if the need arose.

A few days before Christmas, Harry was over at the house, practicing some Transfiguration spells I'd set for him, when he asked me, "The man at the wand shop said my father's wand was good for Transfiguration spells."

"I remember that," I said. "But I think the person casting the spell has a bit to do with it as well."

"Transfiguration seems harder than Charms," Harry added. "I wonder if this wand isn't as good with them as the one my dad had was."

"Well, the wand chooses the wizard, you know," I said, reminding him what Ollivander had said.

"But I don't know what that _means_," Harry complained. "He said my mum's wand was better for Charms, and my dad's for Transfiguration, but the only thing he said about _my_ wand was that its 'brother' gave me this." Harry pointed to the lightning scar on his forehead, mostly hidden by the hair he tried to keep over it.

"I always thought this was just a weird scar, or something like that," Harry told me. "That's what Aunt Petunia told me, that I'd gotten it when my parents died, in a car crash.

"But that old man in the wand shop, Mr. Ollivander, said that a _wand_ did this." Harry looked at me, almost pleading. "How can that be? They can't both be right, can they?"

"No, they can't," I agreed. "Do you want to know how your parents really died?"

"Yes," Harry said immediately. I gestured to a couple of chairs, and we sat down.

"Did you want something to drink?" I asked him. "Some eggnog, or hot chocolate?"

Harry shook his head. I looked over at the refrigerator in the kitchen area; the door opened, and a bottle of soda floated over to me. I looked at the cap, which disappeared, then took a long drink of the cold beverage, enjoying the taste. I could sense Harry's impatience, but I didn't want this conversation, as unsettling as it was going to be for him, to get bogged down with maudlin sentimentality. His parents were dead, and it was normal to miss them, but Harry couldn't let that be the primary focus of his life. I set aside the drink and looked directly at Harry.

"Your parents did _not_ die in a car crash," I told him. "They were murdered."

Harry didn't react to this. It was evident he'd expected something along those lines. "That's kind of what I thought, "he said, "If a wand was involved. Adults don't think kids can handle things like death and murder. This also has something to do with that wizard with no name, doesn't it?"

"You mean, 'You-Know-Who?'" I said, and nodded. "Yes, he's the one who murdered them." Harry waited for me to continue.

"You've been reading the _Daily Prophet_ since I've been getting it, haven't you?" I asked, wanting to give him some background into what happened.

"Yeah," Harry replied. "They've mentioned him a couple of times, in roundabout ways, but never said anything about what he's done. I get the impression he's been gone a long time. And good riddance," he added, coldly.

"He began a series of attacks in the early 1970's," I said, "trying to bring Wizarding Britain under his heel. At the very least, he wanted to control the purity of wizarding blood, which he believed should not be tainted with marriages to witches and wizards born into Muggle families."

"I've wondered why that happens," Harry commented. "It doesn't seem to make much sense that two Muggles could produce a witch or wizard."

"I agree," I said. "But, the explanation may lie in a rather unlikely combination of genes, in both parents. I've got some books on it —" I gestured back toward the shelves of the library "— that suggest that it's a set of dominant genes, but I doubt that's really the case. If it were really dominant genes, we'd see a lot more witches and wizards born to Muggle families — Britain, and indeed the entire world, would be filled with witches and wizards, as our species, _Homo sapiens_, has been around for a quarter of a million years by now.

"But getting back to what happened," I said, and Harry settled back in his chair to listen. "He did have a name, of course: he called himself Lord Voldemort, though he was neither a lord nor of French ancestry. Ironically, his father was a Muggle named Tom Riddle, though his mother was a witch, from a very old Wizarding family that had lost most of its pureblood trappings, except for the attitude that purebloods were superior wizards.

"Voldemort targeted people who spoke out against him, and after a while, people stopped using his name altogether, referring to him as 'You-Know-Who' or 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,' which he seemed more tolerant of. It's in the editions of the _Prophet_ from that time," I mentioned. "The Ministry keeps back copies in its archives.

"But it was still a big problem for the Wizarding community," I went on, because people were disappearing or being murdered. But the Ministry's solution was to advise caution: lock yourself and your children away at night, and essentially hope it would go away. But one person decided to stand up to Voldemort, and he did something about it."

"Who was that?" Harry wanted to know.

"It was Professor Dumbledore. He started an underground society of witches and wizards that began resisting Voldemort's efforts to take over the Ministry."

"I'll bet the Ministry appreciated that, huh?" Harry piped up.

"They didn't, actually," I replied. "People at the Ministry considered it a form of vigilantism, although the laws in place at the time were structured to allow us to defend ourselves from Dark wizards. So they couldn't forbid Dumbledore and his people from defending themselves — that would make it look like Voldemort had already taken over the Ministry!

"What it did was to in effect force the Ministry to respond to Voldemort and his 'Death Eaters,' as the group following him came to be called. The head Auror at the time, Barty Crouch, began to relax the restrictions on Aurors who pursued the Death Eaters, until in a few cases, they were given a 'License to Curse' — that is, they were given permission to use the Unforgivable Curses without reprisal."

Harry shook his head unbelievingly. "Why would they even bother calling them 'Unforgivable,' then? Have you ever used one, Uncle Jimmy?" Harry had taken to calling me "Uncle Jimmy" after the visit from Dumbledore to the Dursley household.

I shook my head. "There's not really a need if you're otherwise prepared," I said. "About the only curse that's really useful is the Imperius Curse, and that to control wizards who are otherwise running amuck and harming others. It was in fact the first Unforgivable Curse that Aurors were granted permission to use in the performance of their duties, subject to review.

"As time went on, however, and Voldemort's methods became more and more oppressive, Crouch approved the Cruciatus Curse for Auror use. From allegations made in the Prophet around that time, however, its primary use was the same purpose the Death Eaters used it for—torture."

"The Ministry _tortured_ people?" Harry gasped. "Why would anyone allow that, even against Dark wizards? I've read descriptions of what the curse feels like…"

"It's probably the worst pain you'll ever feel," I agreed. "It's even driven people mad." Harry shivered, then looked at me a bit impatiently.

"What does all this have to do with my parents' death?" he asked.

"Just giving you the big picture before we get to the heart of the matter," I explained. It was Hallowe'en night of 1981 in Godric's Hollow, the town where your parents lived. Voldemort had learned of their location through an informant —"

"Wait a minute," Harry interrupted. "I thought this happened at their home. Why would they be hiding in their own home — wouldn't that be the first place Voldemort would look?"

"They were using a pretty complex spell, the Fidelius Charm, to hide their location," I told him. "I don't think you've studied the Fidelius Charm yet — it's not in the Standard Book of Spells, not even in grade seven, but it makes a piece of information impossible to obtain, even through other, magical means, unless it is revealed by the person enchanted to hold the secret, called the Secret-Keeper. With that charm in effect," I went on, "Voldemort could have searched Godric's Hollow for years without finding them, even if he'd walked right up to the house where they lived. He wouldn't be able to find it, or see it, unless the Secret-Keeper told him where it was."

Harry digested this information for several moments. "So what went wrong?" he finally asked.

"The Secret-Keeper told Voldemort where they were hiding," I said, matter-of-factly. "After that, the game was up. Voldemort went to the house, attacked father and mother, and killed them."

"And Sirius Black was the Secret-Keeper?" Harry asked, his expression dark. "He's the one who betrayed my parents?"

"That's the story," I said. I wasn't going to tell Harry anything but what the current information suggested. As far as I knew, Sirius _was_ the Secret-Keeper in this reality.

"So why aren't I dead?" Harry wanted to know. "If this Voldemort came to kill them, why'd he leave me alive? And how'd I end up with _this_?" He pointed to the lightning scar on his forehead.

"Well," I said, carefully, treading lightly since it was probably too early to reveal the whole truth about Voldemort's plans for Harry at this point. "It's probable that your mother used some ancient magical protection to keep you safe from Voldemort's spell. Normally, the Killing Curse cannot be blocked, and he would have been at point-blank range, but obviously you are still here. Dumbledore said as much, in the letter he left with you when he placed you on the Dursleys' doorstep."

"So Professor Dumbledore knows what happened?" Harry said.

"He probably has a pretty good idea," I said.

"Do you know what was in the letter he left with me?"

I gave Harry the major points Dumbledore had touched on in his letter to Petunia. "She and Vernon probably destroyed it, though," I reminded him, when he wondered aloud if she still had it. "They are both deathly afraid and mistrustful of magic, and she is resentful of the fact that it separated her and Lily from one another. That's probably why she's treated you so shabbily all these years, since you represent something she didn't have and could never have."

"Do you think Professor Dumbledore will tell me what he knows, if I ask him?"

"I don't know why he wouldn't," I said. "I don't know what he'd stand to gain by not telling you. And it's not that many more months until you can ask him in person."

"I know," Harry said. He got up from his chair suddenly and began pacing the room nervously. "Only nine months and a week or so away! I have a lot to learn before I'm ready to go there, though."

I laughed. Harry looked at me curiously. "What was that for?"

"Nothing," I shook my head, still chuckling. "You just seem so eager," I added, as a reason to explain my outburst. I didn't want to mention how much he reminded me of Hermione Granger at that moment, so very eager to learn as much as possible. Harry didn't even know who Hermione was at the moment. "Do you have any idea what subjects you want to study in school?"

Harry shrugged. "All of them, I suppose. I dunno if I'll need Muggle Studies, though, as I spent my first eight years thinking I was a Muggle myself."

"Should be a pretty easy subject for you to pass, then," I suggested. "Especially if you want to add another O.W.L. to your list."

Harry nodded. "That's true," he agreed. "It's just too bad they don't give out O.W.L.s for Quidditch."

"Oh?" I said, interestedly. "You plan on playing Quidditch in school, Harry?"

Harry considered for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I read _Quidditch Through the Ages_, back when I first started coming here, and I've read some of the other books here on Quidditch as well. I think it's an interesting sport — there's certainly nothing to compare with it in Muggle sports! Once I learn to fly, I'll try out for the team. I just wish," he added, wistfully, "that first-years were allowed to play."

I stood as well, and walked over to him. "Well, I can't help much with getting you onto the team, but I can help you get a leg up on training." I reached into my jacket pocket, pulling out a small black pouch. "I saw something other day that I thought you'd like. I was going to wait until Christmas to give this to you, but the time seems ripe. So Merry Christmas, Harry!" I handed him the pouch.

"Thank you," Harry said, surprised at the sudden gift. "I'm sorry I don't have something for you —" I waved off his apology. "Should I open it now?"

"Please do!" I grinned. "Just reach in and pull out what's in there." Harry pulled apart the mouth of the pouch and I took hold of either end, so he could reach in. He stuck his hand in the pouch, rummaging around a bit (he'd realized by now it was like the pouch I'd given him for his wand, a lot bigger inside than the outside showed) until he felt something, and began pulling it out.

Harry's eyes grew wide as a long mahogany handle slid out of the pouch, ending in a bunch of neat, straight twigs that were carefully bundled. "Oh my gosh!" he exclaimed as the broom came free of the pouch and he held it in his hands. "A real _broom_!"

"And not just any broom," I said, pointing to the writing near the top of the handle. "A Nimbus Two Thousand racing broom. This came out at the beginning of December, just in time for the holidays. It's currently the best racing broom available on the market."

"Oh my gosh!" Harry said again, looking at the broom with awe and excitement. "I can't believe it! Thank you, Uncle Jimmy!"

"You're welcome," I said, smiling at Harry's genuine happiness at receiving the gift. "I thought you might want the chance to practice flying a bit, before you went to school."

"Can we try it out now?" Harry asked, looking at me with excitement and hopefulness in his eyes. "Can you show me how to fly?"

I shrugged, feigning some reluctance. "Well, it's pretty cold outside right now," I pointed out. "I don't know if you need to be flying about in the cold air…"

"We don't need to be out long," Harry wheedled. "Just enough to see how it flies! _Please_, Uncle Jimmy!"

"It _was_ supposed to be a Christmas present, you know," I added.

"Then you should have waited 'til Christmas to give it to me!" Harry laughed. "Please?"

I relented. "Fine, then. I think we can find a suitably isolated spot. In fact, I have just the place in mind." I pointed at a bin in the kitchen, and an empty soda bottle I'd drunk earlier in the day floated out and over to us, where I caught it then took my wand out of a jacket pocket and tapped it once, saying "_Portus_."

The bottle glowed faint blue for a moment, becoming a Portkey. "This will make traveling a bit easier, with the two of us and your broom," I said, as Harry watched me put my wand away.

"Do _you_ have a broom, Uncle Jimmy?" Harry asked.

I shook my head. "I never got into flying brooms as much in my younger days," I said. "But don't worry — we'll get you up and flying in no time." I held out the bottle. "I put a thirty second delay on this Portkey, so put your finger on it and we'll be ready to go. Be sure and keep hold of your broom," I told him, unnecessarily; Harry was holding his new Nimbus as if he'd never let it go.

"Where is it taking us?" Harry wanted to know.

"There's an orchard in Devon, near a small town called Ottery St. Catchpole," I said, that's surrounded by trees and hidden from Muggle eyes," I told him. "It will make an excellent place to learn to fly."

"How do you know about —" at that moment, however, the bottle flashed blue once more, and Harry and I felt a tug behind our navels, pulling us forward with a howl of wind and swirling colors, our hands pressed against the bottle as if held there magnetically, until —

—with a thump, Harry's and my feet thudded into brown grass, as a stiff, freezing wind blew around us. I had on a jacket, and Harry was wearing a sweater, since the library tended to be a bit chilly, but neither of us were adequately dressed for the cold.

Harry was looking around at the orchard. As I'd said, it was surrounded by trees, making it hard to see into from the outside; it was, however, at the top of a hill, so someone flying very high might be noticed above the trees, if Muggle eyes happened to be looking that way. The fact that it was almost Christmas and the branches were bare of leaves also made broom flying a bit more problematic, but if Harry didn't go very high things should be fine. There were a few patches of snow near the trees, where not much sunlight hit the earth, so it had snowed recently up here.

Harry's teeth were beginning to chatter, and I pulled my wand out. "First things first," I said, and tapped him, then myself on the head with my wand, muttering "_Ferventicorpus_" each time — the Body-Warming Charm would keep us both toasty while we were in the cold air.

"Thanks," Harry said, then hefted the Nimbus. "So how should I start?"

"Throw it on the ground," I said. When Harry gave me a slightly outraged look, I smiled and added, "don't worry — it won't break. Plus, this is how the first lesson for using brooms at Hogwarts begins." Harry nevertheless placed the broom carefully on the ground, then stood and waited expectantly for me to go on.

"Stand next to the broom," I said, facing him, "and put your hand out over it." Harry mirrored my action, holding his right hand over the broom, looking excited and a bit apprehensive at the same time. "Now, say 'up' very clearly, and the broom will fly up into your hand."

"Up," Harry said, firmly, and the Nimbus leaped into his hand. Harry looked surprised, in spite of the fact both he and I had expected it to work. I had Harry mount the broom, showing him how to hold it as he prepared to lift off. Even though he'd probably never been on a broom in his life before this (I wondered if he'd ever used one as a stick-horse), he seemed to know instinctively how to hold and position the broom for take-off.

"Now, kick off," I said, "and see how well you do. Remember to stay below the tops of the trees, if you go that high," I pointed toward the tree tops. Harry nodded, and kicked off.

And he flew.

Within a minute, he was soaring around the orchard as if he'd been flying all of his life. I could hear him shouting excitedly, even over the wind, and I smiled, remembering some of the feelings I still had from my adventure of being Harry, a lifetime ago. Flying was the one thing Harry always felt completely at ease with, completely in control of himself and what he could do. It was a heady feeling, I knew, zooming around high above the ground, being able to do effortlessly what you'd always dreamed of doing.

I looked around and saw an old, frozen apple lying on the ground nearby. I picked it up as Harry zoomed by me again, laughing. It was shriveled from the cold, but I tapped it with my wand, warming it and reinfusing it with moisture, until it was solid and shiny red once again.

"Harry! CATCH!" I shouted above the wind, and threw the apple into the air, deliberately away from his direction of flight. Harry saw the apple arcing into the air and did a fast loop back around, diving after the fruit as it reached the top of its arc and began to plunge back toward the earth. He timed it perfectly, meeting the apple not six feet above the ground, the soaring back into the sky and flying past me, flipping the apple back to me as he zoomed by. I looked at it and smiled; Harry had taken a bite out of it. Well, I hoped there weren't any worms in it.

"OI!" There was a shout behind me, and I turned and watched three boys trudging up the hill to the orchard, barely visible through the trees. Harry hadn't noticed them yet; he was still looping around the orchard, enjoying the sensation of flying.

As the three boys approached, I saw that the taller pair were redheads, and identical twins. The third boy, also a redhead, was thinner and more gangly than the first two, but clearly they were all brothers. Of course I knew who they were, since I'd picked out this spot deliberately.

"Afternoon," one of the twins said, cordially. "Nice day for flying." He looked at his twin. "Didn't I just say it was a nice day for flying, George?"

"You did," the other twin agreed. "I don't know why ickle Ronnie thought it was too cold." They were all dressed in heavy coats.

"I didn't say it was too cold," the third brother muttered, sounding put upon. "I just said it was awfully bleedin' cold to come out and throw apples at one another."

"Hello," I said, when I finally had a moment to get a word in. "I'm James Monroe." I pointed at Harry, who was still flying around excitedly. "We're just trying out a new broom." I reached out to shake their hands, beginning with the first twin, who introduced himself as Fred Weasley.

"We haven't seen you around before," George said, after we'd shaken hands. "Are you new in the area?"

"Just visiting," I said, shaking Ron's hand in turn. "We're in from Little Whinging."  
"Long way to come, just to fly around in an empty field," the first twin observed. There was a shout from the air as Harry finally realized I had company.

"I remembered seeing this field once when I was passing through, some time ago," I said. "I thought we'd come round, to see if it was still here." Harry came in for a landing at that moment, walking over to join us. Each of the Weasleys was carrying a broom, though none of them were of the quality Harry was using. "Here we are," I said as Harry stopped beside me, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Harry, this is Fred Weasley, his brother George, and his brother, Ron," I said, pointing to each of them in turn. "This," I said to the three brothers, "Is Harry Potter."

All three of them looked startled. "Go on," Fred said, doubtful. "Pull the other one."

I chuckled. "No, he really is," I said, pointing to Harry's forehead, where his lightning scar was barely visible beneath the fringe of hair that had fallen over it.

"Blimey," Ron said. "I thought you'd be off living in a palace, or something," he said to Harry. The twins both snickered.

"Not really," Harry said, looking uncomfortable at being held in such high regard. He stuck out a hand to Ron. "Pleased to meet you."

Ron looked at Harry hand in surprise, then rubbed his palm against his pants leg before shaking Harry's hand. Harry shook Fred and George's hands in turn.

"D'you remember when You-Know-Who gave you that scar?" Fred asked, when they'd finished shaking hands. George and Ron both looked at Harry expectantly.

"No," Harry shook his head. "I was only about a year old."

"That's quite a broom you've got there," George said, pointing to Harry's Nimbus 2000. A mate of ours at school gets the _Prophet_, we saw an advert for it — it's supposed to be the fastest broom on the market."

"Yeah, it's a beauty," Harry said, hefting it. "Uncle Jimmy got it for me for Christmas."

"I read it was capable of accelerating to 120 MPH in 15 seconds," Ron said excitedly. "How fast have you had it up to, Harry?"

"I dunno," Harry shrugged. "I just got it — this was the first chance I've had to fly it."

"What have you flown before?" Fred asked.

"None," Harry said. "I've never been on a broom before today."

"Really?" Fred and George looked at one another, both smiling. "So, Harry," Fred went on, casually. "When will you be starting Hogwarts?"

"I start next year," Harry replied. "I can't wait to get there!"

"I start next year, too," Ron piped up. "Hey, maybe we'll be in Gryffindor together!" He jerked a thumb at his brothers. "Fred and George are both in Gryffindor. So are my other brothers, Percy and Charlie. Fred, George and Charlie are on the Quidditch team."

"Are you?" Harry said, looking eager. "I'd like to play Quidditch, too!"

"We saw you flying when we got here," Fred told him. "I thought you'd been flying for years, you looked so good at it." Harry beamed at this praise.

"Fred an' me are Beaters," George mentioned. "Our brother Charlie's the team Seeker, but he graduates this year, and I dunno if Wood — Oliver Wood, he's the Keeper for the team, an'll probably make Captain this September — has got a replacement in mind for him."

"But I thought first-years weren't allowed to play," Harry said, glumly.

"True, they aren't," Fred agreed, but there was a quirk on his lips. "But that's more tradition than an actual school rule, I think. And Professor McGonagall — she's our Head of House — is a real Quidditch fanatic. Even with Charlie playing Seeker these past six years, Gryffindor has only won the Quidditch Cup once, during his first year. If you make it into Gryffindor, Harry, we'll put a bug in Wood's ear to try and get you on the team, your first year. If anyone can convince McGonagall to let you on, it'll be him."

"That would be great!" Harry said, excited again.

"Hey, aren't you cold?" Ron suddenly wanted to know. Harry and I were only wearing a sweater and light jacket, respectively.

"It's a spell Uncle Jimmy put on us," Harry nodded toward me. "The Body Warming Charm." Ron shrugged, not really knowing anything about magic.

"It raises your body temperature enough to keep you from feeling the effects of cold and wind," I explained. "You just have to be careful to end the spell once you're out of the cold, or you could pass out from heat stroke."

"Well," George said, "want to play a pick-up game of Quidditch with us, then, Harry? We've got two players per side." He grinned at Ron. "We'll even let you have our best player, ickle Ronniekins here."

"Oh, shut it," Ron said.

"Sounds good," Harry said, nodding to Ron. "We can take 'em, can't we?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely," Ron smirked.

I drew up a simple wooden chair and sat down to watch them play. Fred and George, being two years older than Harry and Ron, and on an actual Quidditch team, had the upper hand, of course; but Ron looked pretty determined to do his best on Harry's team, and Harry, of course, was finally in his element on a broomstick. I wasn't sure whether we'd see any of the Weasleys when we came to this orchard, because of the cold, but I was glad we weren't disappointed.

Getting Harry introduced to the Weasleys, and to two of the most popular Hogwarts students around, was a step toward building up a base of friends for him there, so he wouldn't feel quite as much like an outsider when he stepped into the Great Hall for Sorting. In the original story, Harry had met Fred, George and Ron (as well as Mrs. Weasley) and had seen Ginny as they'd left on the Hogwarts Express, but now they would already know each other that day, and it always seemed to me that the train ride was a way for students to get acquainted outside the environs of the school, a warming up period, that they normally wouldn't get, coming from locations all across Britain.

It would be interesting to see how Harry and Ron's friendship would develop from this point; they seemed to have taken to each other right away, I thought, as I watched them laughing and shouting at one another, and at the twins, as they played their pick-up game. Now, with his broom, Harry had a recreational activity that linked him even more strongly with the Wizarding community, and he was already enthusiastic about Quidditch. I also wondered if Fred and George would be able to pull off getting Oliver Wood to convince McGonagall to allow Harry on the team in his first year — in the original story, it hadn't taken much more than her seeing him snatch Neville's Remembrall out of the air, only a foot above the ground, before she had him on the team.

I sat back, smiling, and conjured a mug full of hot chocolate to sip as I continued to watch the pick up game. It was looking more and more like Christmas had come early, for both Harry and me.


	5. Harry's 11th Birthday

**Chapter 5 – Harry's 11th Birthday**

By the summer of 1991, Harry had spent almost two years studying magic in the library in my wine cellar. He had a good grounding in the subjects of Charms, Transfigurations and Defense Against the Dark Arts, and was well along on his Herbology studies as well as Potions. I had also given him some basic information on Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, two of the more esoteric subjects wizarding students took.

There's not really that much to understanding Ancient Runes, despite the fact that only third-years and above could take the course. Primarily, a student needs to get some basic spellwork under his or her belt before learning the runic alphabet, and learning to transliterate between them and the Latin script used today. Older text were normally written in runes to keep them from Muggles, who kept trying to steal and use magical texts for their own purposes. The ancient runes used by the Wizarding community in Britain are similar (but not identical) to the ones used in the Anglo-Saxon _furthak_ (the word used to represent runic alphabets, since the first six symbols transliterate to sound like it).

Arithmancy was more problematic, but I wanted Harry to have some familiarity with it before he went to Hogwarts, both as another perspective on different ways of working magic, and to give him some tools he could use in a school full of wizards. Arithmancy works with the concept of _ordinality_, a number magically associated with an object. Humans, for example, have several ordinalities associated with them: Our _body_ ordinality is based on the number 5, the number of limbs on the human body (counting the head as one limb). Our _mind_ ordinality is based on the number of lobes in our brain, four, which produces the product of 20; we have 20 fingers and toes. Arithmancers developed specialized spells to help them discover the ordinality of many objects, and these spells can be used to determine which traits are dominant in objects, and thus how those objects should be handled in certain situations. Knowledge of Arithmancy is a major part of wand-lore, for example, which deals with understanding how different woods and cores can be best combined to produce a superior wand. I wasn't going to push wand-lore on Harry so soon, of course, but he could use the Arithmancy spells to help him understand some of the traits and motivations of his fellow students, and thus help him deal with them to his advantage.

I obviously didn't have the means or the inclination to bring magical creatures to Little Whining for Harry to study, but we took a few "field trips" during the latter part of spring, both back to the Weasley orchard in Devon, and to other locations in Britain: Quidditch pitches, or other magical places of magical interest, where some creatures might be found. In the Weasley orchard we found a nest of garden gnomes, which I suspected might be the source of infestation in the Weasley garden. I had Harry swing a few of them around until they became dizzy, then put them down and watched them stumble around, unable to find their gnome-hole.

On a moor in Scotland we found a boggart hiding in a rotted tree trunk. In fact, I almost laughed when Vernon Dursley suddenly appeared as we were walking by and began glowering at Harry. Harry realized after a moment it couldn't be his uncle either, and immediately (and impressively) cast the spell _Riddikulus_ at it wandlessly. "Vernon" was suddenly squeezed into one of his wife's flowered dresses, and Harry and I did have a good laugh at it. I drew my wand and cast a Banishing Charm at the boggart, and it turned and ran away from us, its dress flapping around its legs as it went.

We also found some grindylow and kelpie in various lakes around Britain and Ireland, and examined one of the grindylows fairly carefully, though we didn't try to get near any kelpie! In a forest in Ireland we had a short conversation with a leprechaun, who stopped and asked us to please not tread on his home, and gave us each a shiny gold coin in thanks as we cheerfully agreed to his request. Of course, leprechaun gold does not last; it disappears after a few hours, which appears to be a source of great amusement to them. However, Harry and I managed to save the moment by going to an apothecary's shop in Dublin and having our pictures taken with the gold in our hands. The picture showed Harry and me each smiling and holding, then flipping our gold pieces. The gold disappeared shortly after the picture was taken but the image remained, so we sort of had the last laugh on that leprechaun.

During the last few months of school, in May and early June, Harry also began bringing Dudley along on his visits to the library, which I found interesting, since while they seemed more at ease with one another, they often traded rather pointed barbs. After chatting with Harry when he came over alone, without Dudley, I deduced that they did it as a coping mechanism to keep Harry's aunt and uncle from becoming suspicious of them. They had become more friendly with one another after Christmas, but when Vernon and Petunia saw them being nice to one another they apparently went mental on the two boys, telling Dudley that he wasn't going to become a "freak" like Harry and that Harry had better watch himself or, monthly stipend or no, he'd be out on his ear in a second if they caught him trying to corrupt their Diddykins. Harry and Dudley went back to disliking one another for a while, but Dudley's interest in magic eventually proved too powerful for him to overcome, and he began talking to Harry again, then coming with him to watch Harry and me perform magic. I was glad that Dudley and Harry were getting along — I think it gave Harry a good feeling, knowing he wasn't completely alone at number four Private Drive.

On Dudley's birthday, as I later learned from Harry, a long-standing tradition was broken: when Dudley was asked which friend he wanted to bring along for the day, he'd said, "Harry." Aunt Petunia let out a little shriek of horror, and the vein in Vernon's temple began to pulse. They both began to rant about Harry corrupting their son, and Vernon was stomping back and forth through the house, promising that Harry would be out on his ear before that happened. Dudley began to cry loudly, turning on the waterworks to work his own subtle form of magic on his parents. It almost didn't work, but finally they got it sorted out that Dudley's friend Piers Polkiss would come along with them, and that Harry could go with them to the zoo and stay in the car.

On the way, however, while complaining about various things: the people at work who didn't get enough work done, or were just weird (which mean, not like Vernon), Harry, the people at the bank who commented on the extra money he brought in every month, and Harry again, Vernon realized that he didn't want Harry sitting for several hours in his car alone — no, not after all the weird, freaky things that kept happening around Harry, things he just _knew_ Harry was doing on purpose, somehow. Harry said nothing to this, of course; he later told me that, if he really wanted to something, he could "suggest" things to his aunt and uncle, things they would more often than not do while believing it was their own idea. It was a subtle, wandless version of a Memory Charm, akin to a post-hypnotic suggestion. By the time they had arrived at the zoo, Vernon had decided that Harry was going inside with them — no _way_ was he staying in their new car!

At the entrance to the zoo, Dudley and Piers each got a large chocolate ice cream from Dudley's parents, and the lady working there suddenly asked Harry what he'd like (because, Harry told me, he'd "suggested" it to her). But Vernon spoke up before Harry could say anything and ordered him a lemon ice pop. It was better than nothing, Harry decided, licking the pop as they walked through the zoo.

Since Dudley had to act his "normal" self while around Piers and his parents, Harry kept a safe distance between them, the better to stay unnoticed by his uncle. Watching a gorilla scratching its head Harry grinned, thinking it looked a lot like Vernon.

By lunch time, Dudley and Piers were both bored with the zoo. Harry was having a lot more fun than he was letting on. Both Vernon and Petunia looked a bit harried, like dealing with three boy running around the zoo was more trouble than they anticipated, even if one of them was doing his best to remain invisible. They went to the zoo restaurant for their midday meal, and for afters Dudley ordered a knickerbocker glory. Piers got one as well, but Vernon glowered at Harry when he looked at the server, hoping to get her to ask him what he wanted, too.

Out of sight of the others, Dudley winked at Harry, then began to complain loudly that his knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream. The server came over, and Petunia told Vernon to order another one with more ice cream on top. When it came, Dudley pushed the half-eaten dessert toward Harry, who unobtrusively reached out and pulled it closer, then began to take small spoonfuls from it. Vernon eventually noticed this, and snorted with displeasure, but said nothing.

After lunch, Harry continued, they went over to the reptile house. It was a cool, dark building with windows all along the walls. Inside the windows were all sorts of snakes and lizards, slithering and crawling along bits of wood and pieces of rock. It was weird in there, Harry said, because he kept getting the impression that he was hearing people talking all around him, in low whispers. He kept turning around to see who was talking, he said, but nobody was there.

Dudley and Piers wanted to see some really dangerous snakes, like poisonous cobras and man-eating pythons. Behind the safety of the glass, of course, Harry sneered to himself. They finally found the largest snake in the place, a huge one that could have wound itself around Uncle Vernon's new car and crushed it like a tin can, but at the moment, it didn't look it was in much of a crushing mood. In fact, it looked to Harry like it was sleeping.

"Why won't it move?" Piers whined, his nose pressed against the glass of the window.

Dudley looked at his father. "Make it move," he said. His father tapped against the glass, then rapped it smartly. But the snake didn't budge.

"Boring," Dudley sniffed, and he and Piers moved on to another display, along with Vernon and Petunia. Harry moved up to the window after they left, staring at the snake intently, in sympathy. How boring it must be, to have to lie around all day, with nothing to do but listen to silly people rapping on the walls of your home trying to wake you up!

"_I get that all the time_."

Harry looked around, trying to see who'd spoken, but there was no one nearby. He looked back at the snake; its eyes were open now, and it slowly raised its head level with Harry's own. Then, it _winked_ at him!

"Whoa," Harry whispered. "Did — did you just _say_ something to me?"

The snake nodded once, slowly. Harry looked back at the others. Dudley was having his father rap on another window, trying to wake up some other snake while Piers and Petunia watched. "Sorry about that," he said softly to the snake. "I guess that must be really annoying."

The snake hitched its back a bit — a shrug — then regarded Harry for several moments. "_I don't think I've ever met a human who could really understand me before_," Harry seemed to hear it say, in a hissing sort of voice.

"I'm not quite like other people," Harry said softly. "Where are you from?" he asked, trying to be polite.

The snake cocked his head at Harry, then jabbed his tail at a sign next to the window that read, _Boa Constrictor_. _Brazil_.

"Oh," Harry said, feeling a bit foolish for asking. "Was it nice there?"

The snake hitched its back again and pointed back toward the sign, and Harry saw written there, in smaller text, _This specimen was bred in captivity_.

"Oh, I see," Harry murmured. "You've never —"

"DUDLEY!! MR. DURSLEY!!" A voice shouted, right behind Harry's ear, making him wince. Piers had snuck up behind him, probably to punch him. But then he'd seen the snake looking at Harry. "COME QUICK AND LOOK WHAT THIS SNAKE'S DOING! YOU WON'T _BELIEVE_ IT!!"

Harry had fallen forward, against the window, and the snake shrank back, perhaps reacting to Harry's sudden motion. Dudley was lumbering over to see what Piers was shouting about. He shouldered Harry aside, though not roughly, and put his face against the glass, ogling the snake just as he'd been a minute before. Harry, recovering from being pushed and annoyed that Dudley was acting so much the prat, slapped the glass angrily.

Suddenly Dudley and Piers jerked forward, then reared back, both screaming fearfully. Harry pulled his hand back as well, in sudden realization — the glass was _no longer there_! In his anger he must have inadvertently Vanished it.

There was sudden pandemonium in the reptile house. The boa, sensing it was no longer confined, rapidly uncoiled itself and began slithering out onto the floor. People were screaming and running for the exits. The snake nudged Dudley out of its way with its snout, hissing "_Budge over there, porky_!" and rubbed against Piers as the last of it fell out of the window. As it slithered past Harry, the snake turned its head in his direction for a moment, and Harry heard it say, "_Thanks, amigo. Brazil, here I come_!"

"_Good luck, Bob_," another voice behind Harry hissed, and he turned to see a snake watching from an adjacent window. "_Say, buddy_," it hissed at Harry, "_can you do that trick for me, too_?" Harry just gaped, openmouthed at it.

The keeper of the reptile house was frantic. "What happened?" he kept shouting. "Did the window break? But where did the glass go?"

Afterwards, the zoo director was very apologetic, offering Petunia tea for her nerves and all of them free admittance to the zoo for the inconvenience. Vernon, of course, ranted and raved about the incompetence of the zoo and everyone there, then took the free tickets as they left. By the time they had gotten home, Piers was saying that he'd barely escaped being crushed in the snake's coils, while Dudley was saying he was sure it meant to swallow him whole. Vernon had dropped Petunia, Dudley and him off on Privet Drive, then left to take Piers home, and Harry had hopped on his bike and ridden over to see me.

"I'll probably be in trouble when I get back home," he shrugged, finishing the story. "But I just had to come tell you that! It was so cool, hearing that snake talk!"

"Very interesting," I agreed. "Did you have any indication before now that you were a Parselmouth?" Harry had already read about the term, of course, and realized immediately what his ability was, once he understood what was going on.

"Huh-uh," Harry shook his head. "I've been able to understand what cats and dogs are thinking, if they look at me, and I can tell them to do things and they'll obey me, but I never thought to try it on snakes before."

It was a little over a month until Harry's birthday, but he was too excited by what had happened at the zoo to study today. He wanted to talk to snakes. I suggested we go into the back yard, where he could practice calling for one; I would conjure one, if necessary. But within a minute of Harry making hissing sounds in the back yard (saying "_Here, snake, snake_" in Parseltongue) one slithered up to him, a common grass snake.

"_Why would you want to talk to me_?" the snake wanted to know, when Harry explained why he'd called it. "_I'm just a snake_." It was a dark green, with a grayish, almost yellow collar behind its head, and about a foot in length.

"_Most humans can't talk to snakes_," Harry replied. The snake's head was swaying slightly as Harry talked, and I realized what Harry hadn't yet — that Parselmouths could influence a snake's behavior just by talking to them. The snake was falling under Harry's spell. "_Do you live around here_?" Harry asked the snake.

"_Not far_," the snake said, moving its head around, as if sensing what was around it. "_I'm out looking for something to eat_."

"_What do you eat_?" Harry asked.

"_A frog would be nice_," the snake said, still moving its head around. "_Or a rat, or a vole. Even a mouse would do_," it added, "_if you've seen any_."

"Sorry," Harry said. "But maybe…" Pulling out his wand, Harry said, "_Rattusortia_!" and a rat exploded from its end, landing on the ground between Harry and the snake with an annoyed squeak. Suddenly realizing the danger it was in, the rat scampered away.

"_Thanks, friend_," the snake said to Harry. "_Looks like I'm eating well today_."

"Wait a minute," Harry called, as the snake slithered away. "I wanted to talk — I can conjure another rat when we're done!"

"_Sorry_," the snake hissed, without looking back. "_Dinner calls. Besides, you've got cat company and I'm not interesting in dealing with _that_ right now_." It slithered away after the rat.

"Cat company?" Harry said, puzzled, but I'd already located it — it was Mr. Tibbles, one of Mrs. Figg's cats. It was watching us from the corner of the house. As Harry turned to look, the cat scampered away, running to let Mrs. Figg know what he'd seen.

"Damn," I muttered. There were protections on the house, alarms to let me know when one of Mrs. Figg's cats were nearby, but we'd come outside, and I hadn't been paying attention. I took out my wand and said, "_Accio_ Mr. Tibbles!"

A moment later the cat came flying back around the corner, yowling in surprise as it stopped, suspended above the ground in front of Harry and me. It hissed as me in fury, clawing at both of us, though I kept it just out of claw's reach.

"Sorry, Mr. Tibbles," I said, softly. "We can't let you give Mrs. Figg that information about Harry just yet, not before he's off to Hogwarts a few months from now."

I started to raise my wand, but Harry reached out and stopped me. "What are you going to do?" he wanted to know. "You're not going to…"

"No," I shook my head. "I'm not going to hurt Mr. Tibbles." I looked at the cat, still hissing, spitting, and clawing wildly at us. "But I think a Memory Charm will work on a cat, even if it is part Kneazle, just like it would work on a person." Pointing my wand at Mr. Tibbles, I said, "_Obliviate_!"

The cat went limp for a moment, and I lowered it to the ground. It stood there for a moment, shaking its head, then wandered away on shaky legs. Harry and I watched it go. "Do you think that was necessary?" he asked. "How could Mr. Tibbles tell Mrs. Figg I was using a wand? Isn't she a Squib, anyway?"

"I would rather we didn't find out the hard way," I said, watching the cat disappear around the corner of my house. "If Mrs. Figg knew you were using your wand now, she would let Professor Dumbledore know, and he might wonder why you aren't getting notices from the Ministry, for underage use of magic."

"I don't see why he would care," Harry mused, as we walked back toward the house. "From what I've been reading in the _Prophet_ these past months, he's not one to do things the Ministry way. The New Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, was only picked on his recommendation, because Professor Dumbledore refused the Ministry position himself. Fudge is something of a pillock, according to some people at the Ministry."

The _Prophet_ wasn't very kind to Fudge after he became Minister of Magic — it basically painted him as an ineffective bumbler, and advanced the rumor that he wrote Dumbledore nearly every day to request advice on Ministry matters, which Dumbledore neither confirmed or denied when questioned about it. Hagrid, in the original story, had mentioned Fudge writing the headmaster nearly every day.

Harry went home shortly after this, and later told me that Vernon shouted at him for some time about the vanished glass at the zoo, then sent him to his room as punishment, locking the door. But Dudley, Harry said, would get food from the kitchen, then walk by his door with his Shadow Gloves on, dropping the food through the door so Harry could eat. I was glad to hear that Harry and Dudley were becoming better friends — Harry wasn't as isolated in the Dursley house now, and perhaps some of Harry's goodness would rub off on his cousin, who still used his gloves to steal items from shops around the neighborhood. Dudley had probably learned by now, I expected, that if he concentrated he could move his entire body through solid objects, not just his hands. Every so often I would see a piece in the local paper about items missing from a shop, with no detectable means of entry found. Usually, the police decided that the burglaries were inside jobs; I wondered how long it would be before enough of them had occurred that the police would suspect something else was going on.

Meanwhile, I kept track of the shops that were being targeted and after a couple of months, I sent an envelope with some money enclosed, enough to cover their losses. It was, after all, my fault, in a way, that they were losing property or money, since I'd given the gloves to Dudley. I just hoped he'd learn his lesson sooner than later.

***

A week before Harry's birthday, an envelope arrived at number four, Privet Drive. Everyone was in the kitchen: Petunia had just started cooking scrambled egg, while Vernon sat reading the morning paper and sipping his coffee. Dudley and Harry were waiting for the eggs — Dudley was going through the plate of bacon Petunia had just placed on the table, while Harry was nibbling on a piece of toast.

Harry had been excitedly anticipating the envelope's arrival ever since he'd learned of it; I suspect Vernon and Petunia were dreading its arrival just as much. When Harry heard the mail slot click and the sound of letters falling to the hallway floor, he was up out of his kitchen seat and picking them up almost before Vernon looked up from his paper.

Harry ran back into the kitchen, dropping the other letters on the table. "I got the letter!" he said excitedly, grinning at Dudley, who didn't return it, but rather just scowled and tapped his Smelting stick annoyingly on the table. Vernon and Petunia looked at each other, their expressions going spare, then Petunia went over to stand behind Harry as he looked at the front of the envelope. It was curiously addressed:

_Mr. H. Potter  
The Smallest Bedroom  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey_

"'The Smallest Bedroom?'" Petunia read, annoyance in her voice. "The nerve!" Harry ignored her, examining the envelope carefully. It was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in brilliant green ink. It didn't have a stamp, even though it had come with the letters the postman delivered.

Turning it over, Harry found a large seal of purple wax with a coat of arms embossed in it. He recognized the four animals in the coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger and snake. They surrounded a single letter, a large _H_: the seal of Hogwarts!

Sitting back down, Harry began to slowly open the envelope, trying not to break the wax seal. Suddenly, he became aware of how quiet it was in the kitchen, and looked up: his aunt, uncle and cousin were all staring intently at the envelope in his hand.

"Do you mind?" Harry said tartly, and the three of them pretended to go back to what they'd been doing. Still, Harry could feel their eyes glancing at him every few seconds as he freed the flap on the back of the envelope and pulled out the letter he found inside. He began reading.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL  
_of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY  
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
__Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Potter,  
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Normally, a list of all necessary books and equipment would be enclosed with this letter, but I have been informed it will be delivered to you personally, to receive your response to this invitation.  
Please expect your visitor at noon on 31 July, who will also accompany you to purchase your books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September._

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagal  
Deputy Headmistress

Harry had no sooner read the bottom line of the letter than it was snatched from his hand by his uncle. "Give that back!" Harry demanded, holding out his hand.

"'Purchase your books and equipment,'" Vernon read aloud, then thrust the letter back at Harry. "That'll be a ruddy good trick," he said, nastily, "since you don't have two pennies to rub together, boy."

"Seeing as how you've gotten a lot of money because of me in the past ten years," Harry retorted, "you should be able to give back just a bit of it, to help further my education. Look at how much you're spending to send Dudley to Smeltings!" Harry knew that money wasn't going to be a problem for him to attend Hogwarts; he just wanted to rattle Vernon a bit.

"Out of the question," Petunia snapped, before Vernon could answer. "Dudley's education is top priority — we will not waste money to send you to a — a school like that!

"Why not?" Harry shot back. "You're going to waste money sending Dudley to Smeltings." Dudley gave Harry a _don't-get-into-it look_, but both Vernon and Petunia were outraged.

"You mind your tongue, boy," Vernon snarled, poking a beefy finger into Harry's face. "Or you'll find yourself out on the street before you can say —"

"Abracabra?" Harry finished for him. "Hocus pocus? Alakazam?"

"_Stop it_!" Petunia shrieked, and Harry fell silent, looking at her in surprise. She pointed a bony, trembling finger at him. "Now you listen. Your uncle and I have already decided you can go to this — this school of yours. Heaven knows they're doing us a favor — you'll be out of this house, and out of our hair, until next summer. Meanwhile, our Duddydinkums will be getting a _proper_ education, at Smeltings — and away from _you_."

She turned away to stir the eggs, which had begun to scorch, and a look passed between Harry and Dudley. It was true, Harry supposed — once he left for Hogwarts, it would be months before he'd see any of them again. In his aunt and uncle's case, that wouldn't be nearly long enough! But he and Dudley had become friends, although they could never really act friendly toward each other in this house. Even now, Harry realized that Petunia suspected something was up with them — her last comment had made that all too apparent.

Harry told me all this later that same day. He'd come over to show me the letter; I read it, amused at the way Dumbledore had "outsmarted" us by not including the equipment list with Harry's acceptance letter. Of course, if I'd wanted to, I could recall every item Harry would need from memory, but I was still observing my self-imposed rule of working within the parameters of this universe. Harry's birthday would come around quickly enough, in a few days, and Hagrid would bring the letter, as Dumbledore had told me.

We didn't get much magical training done, the week before Harry's birthday. He was just too excited, wanting to find out what life at Hogwarts would be like. I painted an overall picture for him: the start-of-term feast, where first-years were Sorted into Houses, Dumbledore's opening remarks, then the classes with the various teachers: Charms with Flitwick, Transfiguration with McGonagall, Potions with Snape, Herbology with Sprout, Astronomy with Madam Sinistra, and Broom-riding with Madam Hooch, which all first-years took. Harry was looking forward to seeing the Weasley brothers again, and I said he'd also meet a lot of other students as well.

"I've mentioned this before," I told him, "but it bears repeating. You have a _lot_ more training in magic than most of the students there — not just first years, but the upper classes as well. I think you could match any fifth-year there."

Harry smiled at the compliment.

"But don't go in there and start throwing your knowledge around," I cautioned him. "It's an advantage you don't want to lose."

"I know, I know," Harry said, though he didn't sound pleased at the idea of hiding his capabilities. "But they're going to be expecting me to know stuff, aren't they? The _Prophet_ seems to think I'm going to go in there and be Dumbledore's poster-boy for Hogwarts, that the Minister would be writing letters to _me_ before long."

I shrugged. "There's a game of cat-and-mouse going on between Dumbledore, the Minister and the Wizengamot. Trying to stir up conflicts. Not much to do about that, I'm afraid — Dumbledore will probably ignore them, but Fudge is pretty susceptible to how he's perceived by the Wizarding community. He probably thinks the _Prophet_ speaks for them. But the _Prophet_ is really controlled by whomever is pulling the editor's purse strings at the moment."

"I'm not sure I see the point of all this training," Harry shrugged. "Why learn all of this incredible stuff, if nobody knows I've _got_ it."

I was silent for several seconds. I didn't really want to tell Harry it was preparation for his coming conflict with Voldemort; to be honest, I thought he would come to that conclusion on his own before now. But of course, he have no way of knowing that Voldemort would return, regain his body, and continue his vendetta against the "Chosen One," the person a prophecy foretold would kill him. Obviously, that would put a serious crimp in Voldemort's plans to live forever.

"_You'll_ know you have it," I said at last, "and I'm not telling you not to tell _anyone_ about it. I'm saying, don't go in there and start bragging that you know all these spells, even though you're just a first-year. You remember reading the Tale of the Three Brothers?"

"Yeah," Harry said. In the story, the eldest brother, given an unbeatable wand of elder by Death, killed a rival wizard then boasted about it later, at an inn. Another wizard, hearing the tale, stole the wand later, while the brother was sodden with drink, and killed him for good measure. Had the brother not boasted of his victory, he might have kept the wand for a long time. "But that's just a story," Harry objected.

"But it makes sense, doesn't it?" I argued, and Harry had to agree it did.

"At least they didn't give me any trouble about the letter," Harry mused, putting the envelope back in the pouch where he kept his wand, hung from a cord around his neck. "Aunt Petunia was practically floating, she was so happy I was going to be out of their house for ten months."

"I'm going to have a talk with them about that," I said flatly. "They're not going to get paid a thousand pounds a month just so you can come back in June."

Harry gave me a warning look. "Don't mess up me staying there, Uncle Jimmy, unless you're going to let me live here, with you. Dudley and I just got to the point where we were getting along, and now we've got to split up, 'cause I'm going to Hogwarts an' he's going to Smeltings."

"Don't worry, Harry," I said, airily. "Vernon Dursley will be happy with whatever I give him, if you're out from underfoot for ten months out of the year. It's a win-win situation."

July 31 was a Tuesday morning, and the entire Dursley household was up early in anticipation (or dread) of the upcoming visit. Vernon had taken the day off of work, and sat at the kitchen table looking at the newspaper, though he had barely read a dozen words from it the entire morning. Petunia had begun preparing lunch a little after eleven, but hadn't yet thought to check the heating elements under her pots — she'd forgotten to turn them on. Dudley seemed the calmest of the three Muggles: he was blissfully oblivious to everything except the television.

Up in his room, Harry waited nervously, alternately laying on his bed or pacing back and forth across the floor. I'd told him that a fellow named Hagrid would be coming to bring him to Diagon Alley, and that financial arrangements for his books and other school equipment had been made. I did _not_ tell him about the vault in Gringotts — there was no use giving the Dursleys any chance to learn about the gold Harry had, though there was no way they could get to any of it, even if they wanted to. To get into a Gringotts bank, as everyone knew (except for Harry and the Dursleys) you had to have the key to the vault (or authorization from its owner, in the case of certain, special ones such as Dumbledore's), and the key to Harry's vault was apparently being held by Dumbledore. I hadn't worried too much about that, up to this point, but it made me wonder now just what Dumbledore's legal standing (at least in the Wizarding world) was with regard to Harry.

Just at noon, a rumbling engine was heard along Privet Drive, a sound unlike any the people in the neighborhood had heard before. If they thought that, however, they would have been mistaken, because the engine making that sound was on a motorcycle that had visited the street once before, nearly ten years ago. This time, however, it came rolling down the street midday, rather than out of the sky in the dark of night.

The Dursleys, along with probably everyone else along Privet Drive who had heard the motorcycle, were peeking through their windows, trying to see what the commotion was about. The motorcycle stopped in front of number four and the rider, with black, wildly flowing hair and beard, wearing, somewhat anomalously in the July heat, a black overcoat, stepped off and looked around with beetle-black eyes, crinkling in the sunlight. Spying number four, he came briskly up the walk to the door.

"Oh dear, oh dear," Petunia whispered, staring at the huge boots the man, who looked entirely too big to fit into the house, was wearing. "I hope he doesn't plan on coming inside…"

"I hope he does," Vernon said gruffly. "I've got a few things I want to say to —"

WHAM.

Both of the Dursleys jumped in fright as the front door of their house flew off its hinges, landing in the middle of the hallway, in front of the cupboard door. Vernon and Petunia gaped at it, lying there, looking at each other in shock.

Dudley appeared in the kitchen door and said crossly, "What the hell's all that racket ab—" he stopped, staring at the chest of a very large man framed in the front doorway. The giant bent down so his face was visible, looking at the broken door.

"Sorry about that," he said apologetically. "I keep fergettin', Muggle doors aren't built quite as strong as ours."

Harry bolted down the staircase, stopping at the bottom step and staring up at the giant. "Hello," he said, after a moment. "Are — are you from Hogwarts?"

The giant grinned. "An' where else would I be from?" He looked Harry over appraisingly. "It's been a long time, Harry," he said, a smile breaking across his face. "Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby. Now, you look like your dad. But you got your mother's eyes."

Vernon and Petunia appeared at the entrance to the living room. "See here!" Vernon said roughly. "What's the idea of breaking down our door?!"

"It was an accident, Dursley," Hagrid said, looking at him coolly. He looked sideways at Harry and said, _sotto voce_, "Sometimes I don't know me own strength." Harry smiled at this.

"Well, I demand that you pay for the damages!" Vernon snapped. He didn't seem to notice that his wife was surreptitiously trying to shush him. "People do not simply burst unannounced into someone's house and —"

"I'll fix it," Harry said abruptly. It was either that, or tell his uncle to shut the bloody hell up, and his first choice was likely the wiser one.

"_You'll_ fix it?" Vernon sneered. "You break more things in a _week_ than you've fixed in the last ten years, boy!"

That was untrue and Vernon knew it, but Harry only said, "I'll take care of it, okay? Sir?" he said, addressing Hagrid. "Will you put the door back in place, please?"

"The name's Rubeus Hagrid, Harry," the giant said, lifting the door as if it were a sheet of paper and placing it carefully in the frame. "But ev'rybody calls me Hagrid." As Harry was thanking him for replacing the door, Hagrid suddenly snapped his massive fingers. "Oh, I almos' fergot!" He reached into a pocket of his overcoat, pulling out a slightly squashed box. "I got summat for yeh here — I think I might've sat on it at some point, but it'll taste jus' fine."

Harry opened the box, smiling a bit; he could smell what was inside: a chocolate cake, leaning slightly to one side. Written across the top in green icing were the words _Happy Birthday, Harry_.

"Thank you, Hagrid," Harry said again. "It looks delicious! I'll have a piece in just a minute." He put the box down on a lamp table in the hall, then went over to the door and pressed his hands against it, pushing the broken wood and hinges against each other. Concentrating on the broken surfaces, he thought the word _Reparo_! There was a crackling sound, like leaves rustling in the wind. Taking his hands off the door, Harry reached over and turned the doorknob. The door opened.

"Huh," Hagrid said, "Pretty impressive, Harry! When did you learn that?" Vernon's eyes were popping, and Petunia covered her mouth, stifling a small scream. From the kitchen door, Dudley was still watching, saying nothing.

Harry ignored the question for now. He had to get to know Hagrid better before saying anything about what he knew. "Would you like to come into the living room for a few minutes?" he asked Hagrid.

"Yeah," the giant nodded. He licked his lips. "I could do with a spot of tea, if you have any," he said to Petunia, who stared at him, wide-eyed with fear. "I'm kind of parched from my trip here." After a moment, she nodded shakily, then scurried away into the kitchen, pulling Dudley after her.

Hagrid sat down on the divan, which bent alarmingly, taking up most of the space on it, while Vernon plopped into a chair across from him. Harry remained standing. "So what's all this I hear about you bein' paid to take care of Harry, Dursley?" Hagrid said, giving Vernon a stern look. "Aincha never heard of family obligation?"

"And what business is it of yours?" Vernon replied stiffly. "_You_ didn't have to take care of the boy for the past decade."

"I'd a been more'n happy to do it," Hagrid shot back. "If Dumbledore would've let me."

"Dumbledore, Dumbledore," Vernon snapped. "If that old codger wanted this boy kept so badly, he should have done it him— _eeep_!"

Vernon's sentence had cut off abruptly as Hagrid came suddenly to his feet, rearing to his full height, slamming the top of his head into the ceiling and drawing from his coat — a large, pink umbrella, which he thrust, point-blank, into Vernon's face.

"Do NOT insult Albus Dumbledore in front of me, Dursley!" he growled, and Vernon shrank back, pressing himself back into the chair until Harry wondered if he'd fall through it. "A great lump like you doesn't hold a candle to a man like him!" There was a knock on the door. No one moved.

After a few seconds, Hagrid looked over at Harry. "D'you want to get that, Harry? I think me an' yer great Muggle of an uncle have got things straight between us. Don' we, Dursley?" Vernon shakily nodded agreement, and Hagrid put away the umbrella and sat back on the divan.

Harry opened the front door, finding me standing on the doorstep in my usual gray suit. "Happy Birthday, Harry," I said cheerfully.

"Hi, Uncle Jimmy," Harry replied quietly, not loud enough for his voice to carry to the living room. But Vernon had heard my greeting to Harry.

"Is that that Monroe, chap, Harry?" he called, and I heard an unexpected emotion in his voice: relief. Perhaps he thought I was here to rescue him and Petunia. "Will you ask him to join us, please?" Harry's eyebrows shot up, and he stepped back and ushered me into the house.

I walked to the doorway of the living room, surveying the scene: Hagrid had seated himself again on the divan, which looked ready to collapse under his weight, and dust and plaster falling from the ceiling through the hole his head had made when he stood up; across the room from him, Vernon Dursley cowered in a recliner, his expression a mixture of outrage and fear. "Hello again, Mr. Dursley," I said, then nodded to Hagrid. "Good morning! You would be Hagrid, the chap from Hogwarts?"

"I would," Hagrid said, his voice pleasant but with a cool demeanor. "An' would you be that James Monroe fellow, the one who brought Harry to Diagon Alley last year?"

"Yes, I am."

Hagrid reached into his coat once again. "I got summat for yeh, too." He handed me a parchment envelope. "That there's from Professor Albus Dumbledore himself," Hagrid said, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "Yeh might want to take a peek at what it says."

Intrigued, I drew a finger across the side of the envelope, slicing it open, and withdrew two sheets of paper from within. The first was a short letter, written very formally:

BLACK, FOWLER & DAHLQUEST, R.W.L.F.  
Solicitors-at-Wizarding-Law  
14 Knockturn Alley, London

_Dear Mr. Monroe,_

Please be advised that Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, holds an Enduring Power of Attorney, in all fiduciary and matters of welfare, for Mr. Harry James Potter, currently of number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, granted to him under the terms of the Last Will and Testament of James Charles Potter and Lily Evans Potter, until Harry James Potter shall attain his majority.

Mr. Dumbledore hereby requests that any and all dealings relating to Mr. Potter's living conditions, the status of his residence with his living relatives, Petunia and Vernon Dursley, and all business relating to his wizarding education be directed through him.

Sincerely Yours,  
Aldebaran Black, Esq.

The second sheet a paper was a short, hand-written note:

_Rubeus Hagrid has my permission to bring Mr. Harry Potter to Diagon Alley,  
__and to assist him with the purchase of any and all books and equipment  
required for his first year at Hogwarts._

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

I looked up at Hagrid. "I guess he went and made it legal, didn't he?"

Hagrid shrugged. "I wouldn't know nuthin' about that, Professor Dumbledore just tol' me to give you those letters." Hagrid got to his feet, being careful not to put his head back through the ceiling this time. "Well, I think me an' Harry'll be on our way — we got some things to buy for his first year at Hogwarts."

Harry, however, hadn't moved. "What if I want him to come along?" he asked Hagrid, jerking his head toward me.

Hagrid shrugged, not as apologetic as he might have been. "No room on the motorcycle, I'm afraid, Harry — sorry." He looked back at Vernon, pointing to the hole in the ceiling. "Sorry about that, Dursley — Muggle houses aren't very sturdy, are they?" Vernon sputtered, staring at the hole in his living room as Hagrid turned and carefully opened the front door, moving slowly to avoid knocking anything apart. He looked back at Harry, who still hadn't moved.

Vernon looked at me, almost smirking. "Well, it seems he rather told _you_, didn't he? Don't you have anything to say, Monroe?"

"There's not much I _can_ say," I replied, flatly. "Dumbledore has Harry's power of attorney, which pretty much gives him the right to tell me to butt out of Harry's business." Vernon grinned — he was enjoying the spectacle of _me_ being outsmarted, for once.

"Ha! What would you — _people_ — know about legal matters like power of attorney?" Vernon snorted, waving a dismissive hand at both me and Hagrid, who was in the hallway, bent over to look at him through the entrance to the living room.

"Ah, go boil yer head, Dursley," Hagrid sniffed. "Come on, Harry." Harry still didn't move, though — he looked at me questioningly, as if he expected me to come up with a some kind of response that would fix everything. For right now, however, Dumbledore had the upper hand, both in Muggle and Wizarding law: I was going to have to let Harry go with Hagrid.

"You'd better go get your stuff for school, Harry," I said quietly. He frowned, giving me a disappointed look before shrugging and turning away. He slouched out after Hagrid, following him down the front walk, and Hagrid sat him on the motorcycle between him and the handlebars. Hagrid then kicked the motorcycle to life, and the pair roared out of sight up Privet Drive.

"Are they gone?" Petunia said, coming out of the kitchen with a cup of tea in one trembling hand, Dudley following close behind her. She started upon seeing me. "Oh, it's _you_," she said, putting both hands on the cup to steady it. "What are you doing here now?" She didn't see Dudley give me a shy smile.

"Hello, Petunia," I said cordially, ignoring her impolite tone. "I had intended to accompany Harry to get his school books and equipment, but the circumstances have changed somewhat. Professor Dumbledore has exercised power of attorney for Harry — I cannot interfere."

Vernon was looking about the room, an uncharacteristic smile beaming from his face. "Just think, dear," he said to Petunia. "In another month, the boy will go away to school, and we'll be here, raking in a thousand pounds a month for it. Ah, how sweet it is!"

"Sorry, Vernon," I said. "But for one thing, if you're not taking care of Harry, you shouldn't expect to be paid." Vernon's expression went from abnormally happy to thoroughly shocked in a fraction of a second. "For another, I continued, "Since Dumbledore has exercised his fiduciary power of attorney for Harry, I can't pay you any more without his permission."

"What — what — _what_?" Vernon sputtered; his good mood had evaporated in a heartbeat. "But this — this — this is just _intolerable_!" he seethed, beginning to pace back and forth in his living room. "We need that mon— er, that is to say, we want Harry to continue calling this his home," Vernon amended hastily.

"My hands are tied," I said flatly, folding my arms in front of myself. "However — I may be able to convince Harry to get Dumbledore to allow the payments to continue."

"Really? How?" Vernon asked, hopeful once again.

"One of you can go with me to talk to him," I answered.

The effect of that statement on Vernon and Petunia was immediate, and profound. Both of the paled, becoming almost chalk-white, and backed away instinctively. But Dudley, who had looked ready to say something for the past five minutes, stepped forward immediately.

"I can go with you," he said, his head held high and his voice confident. "_I'm_ not afraid," he added in a nasty tone, looking at his parents smugly.

Vernon, who I could see was going through a mixture of emotions—anger, pride, revulsion — decided to put the most positive of that lot forward. "That's my boy," he said, reaching out to tousle Dudley's hair, though his expression was hesitant. Then he spun on me, a beefy finger once again wagging in my face.

"Mind you, we'll want him back just as he is, thank you very much!" he snarled. "And if the Potter boy spends even _one_ more day here, I'll be expecting a full month's payment!"

"That sounds equitable," I agreed, reaching out and shaking his hand before he could pull it away. "A month's payment if Harry spends even one day of the month here with you."

"Uh, wait —"

"You'll find tomorrow's payment will arrive as usual," I said, releasing Vernon's hand. "Assuming you bring him to King's Cross Station on September first, you'll receive that payment as well. Harry should be back sometime in late June next year." I started toward the door. "Come, Dudley."

"Oh, wait!" Petunia said, grabbing Dudley and holding him protectively, to his embarrassment. "Vernon, do you think it wise to let our dinky Duddums go with this man?"

"He's done it before, Petunia," Vernon argued. "And we need to get that — that is, we want to convince Harry to come back as soon as possible. Er, do they allow students to visit home on the Christmas holidays?"

A few minutes later Dudley and I were walking up Privet Drive toward Wisteria Walk. "I've been meaning to tell you," Dudley spoke up, after we'd walked for a minute or so, "that library room at your house is a really cool place."

"Thanks," I said, "I think you've mentioned it before."

"Maybe so," Dudley nodded. "But it is. Really. And those gloves you gave me are cool, too!"

"Liking them, are you?" I asked, turning onto Wisteria Walk. "Getting some use out of them?"

"Oh yeah, loads," Dudley said eagerly. "I've gotten lots of loo— er, uh, practice with them," he finished, glancing sideways to see if I'd reacted to his changing words in mid-sentence. I pretended not to have noticed.

"Good," I said. I reached into my jacket, pulling out a small case and handing it to him. "Happy belated birthday. I didn't get a chance to get this to you until now."

"Whoa — what is it?" Dudley goggled at the finely-made leather case, wrapped in a blue ribbon and bow.

"Open it and find out," I said. Dudley ripped off the bow, dropping it on the ground (and not noticing that it disappeared as it touched the sidewalk) and opening the case. Inside was a pair of sleek black sunglasses.

"Wow," Dudley said, pulling them out and inspecting them in the sunlight. The lenses of the sunglasses were completely opaque, when viewed from the front; when he put them on, and began looking around, however, he began turning around wildly, trying to see in as many directions at one time as possible.

"This is _wicked_!" he said, looking at a nearby tree. "I can see right _through_ the tree!" he said, pointing toward it. "There's a sign on the other side!" I stepped around where I could see it; it was a missing pet poster for, ironically, Mr. Hands, one of Mrs. Figg's cats. I wondered when her pet had gone missing.

Dudley was looking at his hands. "Awesome! I can see the bones in my hand!" He looked at me, his expression falling. "But — I can't see through _you_! How come?"

"Because I'm giving them to you," I said, with a chuckle. "And I don't intend you to use them against me."

"I wouldn't do that, Uncle Jimmy," Dudley said. He actually sounded hurt by my comment.

"Well, good," I said. "Try and use them wisely, Dudley. You've got two very useful magical gifts now, and I hope you appreciate how rare such things are in the Muggle world."

"Oh, I do, Uncle Jimmy, I do!" Dudley said, very sincerely.

"Good." I turned up a walk, toward the house it led to. "Let's take a shortcut, shall we?"

"Where are we going?" Dudley asked, following me to the door.

"For the moment—here," I said, knocking on the door. I heard a meowing on the other side, growling fainter, then a woman's voice. This was the home of Mrs. Arabella Figg; I'd decided to pay her a quick visit to ask after Mr. Hands. And to make use of one of her facilities.

It was several moments before we heard her say, in a quivering tone, on the other side of the door, "Who's out there?"

"It's James Monroe, Mrs. Figg," I said, "and Dudley Dursley. Just stopping by for a word about Mr. Hands."

The door opened after a moment and Mrs. Figg looked out at us, a wary expression on her dowdy face. "Is Harry with you?" she asked, a suspicious tone to her voice. I suspected she knew where Harry ought to be right now.

"On his way to Diagon Alley," I said, "with Hagrid. Do you mind if we come in for a moment?"

She backed away slowly from the door, and I led Dudley inside. The house was a mad collection of knick-knacks, trinkets, ancient and faded lamps and candleholders, and the odor of cats and cabbage was strong. Dudley was wrinkling his nose in disgust, but I smiled pleasantly and said, "I saw a poster up saying Mr. Hands had gone missing. I'm so sorry! When did it happen?"

"Oh, a week ago tomorrow," she said, shaking her head as she led us into the living room, and I saw what I'd expected to find there — a full fireplace, complete with mantelpiece; and on it, a bowl of a silvery dust: Floo Powder. I was curious to try this method of magical transportation with Dudley, since it would require some independent action on his part.

"I don't know what got into him," Mrs. Figg was chattering; now that she had someone who wanted to speak with her, she could hardly stop talking! "I think he and Mr. Tibbles got into a row over who was going on patro— well, who was going out first that evening, I mean to say. It was nice of you to stop by, Mr. Monroe," she said, nodding gratefully to me. "Especially after…"

"After that letter I got today?" I finished for her. She nodded slowly, looking uncomfortable. "Well, not to worry, dear; I'm sure Dumbledore is doing as he thinks best."

"Can we go now?" Dudley said. He had the sunglasses on and was looking around the room.

"Don't be rude, Dudley," I reminded him. "But then, we should let Mrs. Figg get back to her business. I pointed to the fireplace. "You don't mind if we use your fireplace, do you, Mrs. Figg?"

She looked at me, a confused expression on her face. "What? My _fireplace_? You aren't going somewhere —"

"— to Diagon Alley, actually," I said, and gestured for Dudley to join me. "Take a pinch of this in your fingers," I told him, holding the bowl of Floo Powder out for him. He took a bit, and I pointed to the fireplace. "Throw it into the fireplace, then step into the green fire that appears. The fire won't harm you. Then say, 'Diagon Alley' very clearly. When you arrive, step out of whatever fireplace you're in, I'll be along in a few moments."

Dudley looked at Mrs. Figg, then at me, then at the powder between his fingers. His face broke into a wide grin, and he tossed the powder into the fireplace. With a whoosh, green flames swirled up, and Dudley stepped right into them and shouted, "Diagon Alley!" He began spinning very fast, then vanished as the green flames died away.

Mrs. Figg was staring at me in shock. "Cheers, my dear," I told her, taking a pinch of Floo powder for myself. I knew she would be reporting this to Dumbledore as soon as I disappeared; truth be told, I was sort of thumbing my nose at him by doing this. But Dumbledore couldn't stop me from going to Diagon Alley myself, or taking Dudley, if I wanted to, even if he could legally control my dealings with Harry. And if we happened to pass each other on the street while there, well, there was no reason we couldn't stop and chat for a bit.

"I hope Mr. Hands turns up soon," I said, and threw the powder into the fireplace, stepping into the green flames and saying "Diagon Alley!" I began to spin very fast, then felt myself passing by fireplace grates too fast to make out what was on the other side of them, until finally I arrived in the Diagon Alley Welcoming Office, the default arrival location for the Floo Network in Diagon Alley. The Welcoming Office was located near the entrance to Diagon Alley, between the cauldron shop and Eeyelops Owl Emporium.

As expected, Dudley was standing there, wearing a big grin. "Can we get some ice cream?" he asked me, excitedly.

"Let's find Harry first. He should be in the same direction as the ice cream parlour, anyway," I said, pointing down the street towards Gringotts. Their first order of business should have been to go to Gringotts, to get Harry some of his money. Halfway to the bank, in front of Flourish and Blotts, I spied Hagrid walking our way, though he didn't look like he'd seen us. In fact, he looked distinctly uncomfortable, and I remembered that the carts in Gringotts upset his stomach; he'd wanted to slip off to the Leaky Cauldron afterwards, for a "pick-me-up" to calm his nerves. We stepped into a nearby shop, letting him go by, then walked back onto the street.

"He gives me the creeps," Dudley said, watching Hagrid's receding back.

"You'd want him on your side in a fight, that's for sure," I said to him. "Harry's probably getting his robes, they're right next to the bank."

We found Harry in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, being fitted. Next to him was a pale boy with pointed features, whom I recognized as Draco Malfoy. The witch working on his robes had just finished, and Draco jumped down from the stool, walking past us and giving Dudley a cool eye.

"Hi there," I said to Harry, who nodded.

"Hey, Harry," Dudley said, and I noticed Draco stopped and looked back at him, as if wondering whether he was _that_ Harry. I gave Draco a look that said, _Move along, there's a good lad_, and he smirked, then turned and walked out to the front of the shop.

"What was the big deal, ditching me like that?" Harry wanted to know, as Madam Malkin continued to work on his hem. "Hagrid's a nice sort of fellow, but he kind of rambles."

"You heard the letter from Dumbledore," I said. "I can't interfere."

"Well, how _I_ see it," Harry said, testily, "it's Dumbledore who's interfering."

Madam Malkin looked up at him, surprised. "Oh, dear, don't say that!" she exclaimed. "Professor Dumbledore is a wonderful person! He buys a new robe from me, every season, and he's always such a dear to talk to! I'm sure he's not trying to interfere in your life."

"Excuse me," Harry said curtly, "I don't know what _you'd_ know about it."

"Don't be rude, Harry," I said. "I'm sure Dumbledore is doing what he thinks is in your best interest."

"Well he hasn't talked with _me_ about it," Harry complained. Madam Malkin finished pinning his robe and Harry jumped down from the stool he was on. We went out front to pick up his robes, which were ready only a minute after the sizing was finished. Harry paid for them from his new supply of Wizarding money, and Dudley goggled at the pouchful of gold, silver and bronze pieces Harry had. "He dumped me off ten years ago," Harry continued, "and now, he thinks he can just come barging back into my life without so much as a by-your-leave."

We met Hagrid at the door, "Hey, Harry, want to go for an ice cream at — oho," he said, seeing Dudley and me. "I see you followed us, Monroe. Didn't Professor Dumbledore's letter make it plain enough for you, that you ought to butt out of Harry's business?"

"And butt out I have, Hagrid," I said, all politeness and charm. "But I thought Dudley would like to see Diagon Alley one more time." Dudley, his new sunglasses back again, was looking around at the various shops and items stacked haphazardly in front of them. Dudley looked at Hagrid, then pointed.

"What's that thing?" he asked, his finger aimed at Hagrid's chest.

Hagrid looked down at himself, confused, then frowned at Dudley. "That's my overcoat, you great lump, what'd yeh think it was?" Dudley cocked his head, looking through his glasses, and said nothing.

"An ice cream sounds delicious, Hagrid," I said, beaming, to distract them. At Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour we each got a bowl of ice cream (after I convinced Dudley he didn't need another triple-decker sundae, much less two) and sat down at an outside table to eat them. Harry was silent, evidently still fuming about having Hagrid simply show up with orders from Dumbledore and take over his life. Hagrid, on the other hand, was pretty relaxed after having a few drinks in the Leaky Cauldron to calm his nerves.

"Anythin' wrong, Harry?" Hagrid asked casually, after finishing his ice cream. He'd noticed Harry's mood as well.

"Nothing," Harry said, though in a tone that indicated there obviously was.

"Come on," Hagrid wheedled, trying to coax him into saying what he was upset about. "You can tell ol' Rubeus Hagrid."

Harry stole a glance at me, and I raised my eyebrows, thinking, _well, he's asking you, Harry_. That was at least something, I figured.

"Alright," Harry said, looking at Hagrid. "What I want to know is, where have you and Dumbledore been the past ten years?"

Hagrid looked confused. "What d'yeh mean, Harry?"

"I mean, I'm dropped off at my aunt and uncle's house, like I'm last week's rubbish —" Dudley snorted, and I shot him a warning look. "I'm there for _ten years_," Harry went on. He pointed at me. "A wizard who I'm not even related to is paying my Muggle relatives to take care of me! And now you waltz in today and drop this letter in our laps that says that the only wizard who's ever bothered to take care of me isn't allowed to be my friend anymore!"

"I don' think that's what Professor Dumbledore's letter said, Harry —"

"It's as good as, isn't it?" Harry demanded. "Only Professor Dumbledore can have any say in my welfare — or someone else, like you, when he doesn't have time to bother! Sorry, Hagrid, no offense, but that's just not right."

Dudley looked up from his ice cream — he'd been working steadily on getting his bowl of chocolate and butter-run with double fudge down, with the aim of having a second, saying, "Mum and Dad should have a say, too — they are getting paid for it, aren't they?"

"Dudley, don't you _get_ it?" Harry snapped at him, exasperated. "They're _supposed_ to want to take care of me — nobody should have to _pay_ them!"

"Think they'd do it for free, then?" Dudley looked doubtful. "Not my father, not bloody likely. He wants his money's worth, like me." Harry just shook his head, disgusted.

"Oh, don't pretend you don't care about money, Harry Potter!" Dudley said, angered by Harry's attitude. Several people in nearby tables turned around, staring at us. "I saw that bag full of weird money you had when you were paying for your school uniform! Looks like you had quite a bit of it! I wonder where all _that_ came from, then?"

"It all came from my vault at the bank" Harry fired right back. "Unlike all the money _you've_ been getting for the last year, by stealing it!"

"Did NOT!" Dudley shouted.

"Did SO!" Harry shouted right back. "Thief!"

"Take that back, Potter!" Dudley stood, raising his fist threateningly toward Harry, who drew his wand and pointed it toward Dudley's face.

"I'm warning you, Dudley," Harry said tightly, through gritted teeth. "Friend or not, you're never gonna hit me again."

Dudley had paled at the sight of Harry's wand, but did not back down. "I've got magic too, you know," he said, his voice trembling. "I can hide that wand where you'll _never_ find it again."

"Alright, enough of this!" I said, finally finding my voice. Beyond my fear that Harry and Dudley would mess up their best chance at a real friendship, at a time when Harry would need friends both in the Wizarding _and_ Muggle worlds, we were also attracting unwanted attention: wizarding folk seated around us were staring in frank curiosity. Some were pointing toward Harry — I was sure they'd recognized his scar, even if they hadn't heard Dudley call him by name. "You two are acting like five-year olds!"

They both looked at me, stung. Then Dudley came back at me with the old standby, "You're not my father! You can't tell me what to do!"

"And I appreciate that you keep reminding me that, Dudley," I replied. "But I _can_ tell you what to do, and I _am_ telling you, you need to quiet down, the both of you. You're not going to solve things by shouting at each other."

"Quite true, Mr. Monroe," another, familiar voice said, and we all looked round to see Professor Dumbledore standing a short distance away. "Excuse the interruption," the professor said, moving closer so he could speak more quietly. "I understood you would be in Diagon Alley today, Harry, and I wanted a word with you before school began. May I join you?"

Harry looked at me, then nodded, and Dumbledore took a seat next to him. He sat there for what seemed like a long time, his fingers steepled in front of himself, before he spoke. "Harry, we all have to make choices in life, and for the most part, we must live with the choices we make. Do you understand what I mean?"

Harry nodded.

"Good," Dumbledore said. "It was a very troubled time, when your parents were killed —"

"I— " Harry began, but Dumbledore held up a hand, and he stopped.

"Please, let me finish, Harry, then I will listen to whatever you have to tell me. The Wizarding world had been through eleven years of turmoil, brought about by Voldemort's —" Hagrid and wizarding folk at several tables around us flinched at the name, but Dumbledore continued as if he hadn't noticed "— reign of terror, and efforts to control the Ministry. Many families had been victimized by the Dark Lord, and his Death Eaters carried destruction, torture, and the Dark Mark wherever they went.

"So when your parents, James and Lily Potter, were threatened by him, many feared that their deaths would be the turning point in the war, the time when the Dark Lord would be perceived as having gained ascendancy. They, along with you, went into hiding, but he was able to find their hiding place and attacked, killing them, and giving you the scar on your forehead."

"Didn't you think any of that was worth telling me before now?" Harry asked, an expression of irritation on his face.

"Of course," Dumbledore replied, mildly. "But I could hardly have done so when you were two years old, or three, or even four. I had to wait until you were able to understand what I was telling you, and until you were ready to listen to me. That is why I placed you with your aunt and uncle, to await that time."

"Thanks, loads," Harry said, his voice laden with sarcasm.

"You may not be entirely convinced of the wisdom of living with them, Harry," Dumbledore went on, "but it was necessary, for your protection."

"Protection from _what_?" Harry said, his voice getting louder. "That's all I've been hearing — how living with my aunt and uncle was 'necessary for my protection.' But nobody will say _why_!"

Dumbledore and I looked at each other for a moment. Both of our thoughts were guarded, but it was easy to guess that he was thinking the same thing as I: tell Harry about Voldemort plans now, or wait? In a crowded ice cream parlour in the middle of Diagon Alley, with a dozen people listening to our conversation? The choice seemed obvious.

"I ask you to bear with me for a while longer, Harry," Dumbledore finally said. "We will have more time to talk, when you have come to Hogwarts."

"For now, however," the headmaster continued, turning to me. "I would like to speak to Mr. Monroe, about other matters. Harry, I would like you to continue getting your equipment, if you please, with Hagrid's help."

"I've got everything I need," Harry replied, shortly. He held up the equipment list Hagrid had given him when they'd arrived at Diagon Alley. "Except for my books," he said, "and I don't have an owl, or a cat."

"Tell you what, Harry," Hagrid piped up; he'd been listening silently up to this point, letting Dumbledore do all the talking. "We can go an' get your books at Flourish and Blotts — it's just down the street a ways." He pointed back up the street, where we could see the front of the store, just past Madam Malkin's. "An' when you're done with that, I might have a little surprise for yeh."

"What about me?" Dudley said suddenly. I looked at him. He'd been quiet as well so far — uncharacteristically so, I thought.

"Well, I ain't getting' _you_ anything, if that's what yer askin'," Hagrid retorted, misunderstanding him.

"Hagrid," Dumbledore said gently. "I believe young Mr. Durlsey was inquiring as to what should be done with him, if I'm to talk in private with Mr. Monroe and you and Harry are otherwise occupied."

"Oh, right," Hagrid said.

"He can come with me," Harry said, looking at his cousin. "And help me get my books."

"Cool!" Dudley said, smiling.

"Very good," Dumbledore said, clapping his hands together briskly. "Well, off you go, then. Oh, Hagrid," he added, as the half-giant stood along with Harry and Dudley. "Would you be so kind as to take both boys home afterwards, in the event my conversation with Mr. Monroe runs long?"

"Sure, Professor," Hagrid said, "I think we can fit the three of us on that motorcycle. Oh," he leaned forward a bit, patting his chest, "I'll come see yeh afterwards, Professor. About the, uh, you-know-what from you-know-where."

"Very good, Hagrid," Dumbledore nodded, and the three of them walked toward the bookstore, leaving Dumbledore and me alone. The tables around us were emptying as well, as people decided to follow Harry and his acquaintances, to see what they were up to. Within seconds, we were completely alone.

"And so," Dumbledore said, after a few moments, "what are we to conclude from your presence here, Mr. Monroe, after my letter to you, through Hagrid, specifically instructed you not to interfere in Harry's welfare, or his business?"

"I didn't interfere," I objected. "Since I read your letter, I have not made a single suggestion to Harry about his education, his living arrangements, or his relationship with his aunt, uncle or cousin. I did not bring him to Diagon Alley and I did not suggest he leave so we could talk."

"Granted," Dumbledore acknowledged, with a small bow of his head. "But still, I do not understand the interest you show in him."

"I might say the same of your interest in him," I countered. "A wizard, more than one hundred years old, showing such an interest in a boy whose claim to fame is the defeat of the most dangerous Dark wizard of the age, a feat even you yourself were not able to accomplish. I wonder if you might be somewhat…jealous of that, Professor?"

Dumbledore arched an eyebrow at me. "Such an allegation is specious," he said dismissively, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. "The defeat of Voldemort was of vast relief for the Wizarding world, however and by whomever it was achieved."

"Agreed," I said, levelly. "Except we both know he hasn't been defeated." When Dumbledore didn't reply, I went on. "Or at least, you indicated so in your letter to Petunia Dursley, though most of the Wizarding world seems to have a different view — mostly, it seems, due to your comments over the years."

"I have neither confirmed nor denied the rumors that Voldemort is alive — or dead, for that matter," Dumbledore pointed out. "It remains an open question either way. Voldemort was quite open concerning his contempt for death, as well as for the Muggle-born among us. I have considered it ironic that his father was, in fact, a Muggle himself, named Tom Riddle."  
"I've heard the same thing," I nodded.

"You are among the few who have, if so." Dumbledore steepled his fingers, staring at me over the tips. "You are something of an enigma yourself, James Monroe. I am quite sure you have never been at Hogwarts; you did not matriculate there, nor does your name appear in the list of wizard children born over the past one hundred years. I have also checked with the headmasters of every school of wizardry I know and, I venture to say, I know them all. None of them knows or remembers you."

"You seem to be fascinated by men who are riddles," I said, grinning at my own pun. Even Dumbledore smiled for a moment, upon hearing this.

"But in my case," I went on, "the details of my life aren't relevant to my interest in Harry's welfare. I was basically a disinterested party when I first arrived in Little Whinging. When I discovered Harry, he'd just been left on the doorstep of a Muggle family, his only living relatives, who had no interest in keeping him even though the alternative was to place him in an orphanage. I piqued Vernon Dursley's interest by giving him an incentive, using the only thing he seems to really care about — money. As for his son, Dudley, I've shown _him_ another side to magic, one which he finds interesting, and in that way, a connection with Harry.

"These are things _you_ might have done," I added, pointedly, "if you were really interested in Harry's welfare. Instead, you set a spy in his neighborhood, to keep track of him and make sure no Death Eaters were going to show up and murder him and his relatives in their beds. But you did nothing else. You showed no interest in Harry, no real concern for his personal growth or mental well-being."

Dumbledore sighed. "You seem rather opinionated for a disinterested party, Mr. Monroe, both about me and Harry. However, I have no quarrel with what you've done for him in the past. Nor would I wish to prevent him from seeing or communicating with you if such is his wish. I would like to make a simple request, however."

"What is that?" I asked, interested.

"I ask that, at least for the coming school year, that you do not attempt to communicate with Harry while he's at Hogwarts. He will be meeting many new people, both students and teachers, and I would like his development to go unswayed by your somewhat unorthodox educational methods."

"You mean my library?" I asked, a small smile on my lips.

"Indeed, it is quite impressive," Dumbledore nodded. "There are some books there even the library at Hogwarts does not possess. Harry, having had the benefit of visiting your library for some time now, has a decided advantage over most first-years."

"Some people might expect him to," I pointed out. They might assume that Harry has had the benefit of education in a home filled with magic, even if they had no idea where he was. If it had been left to the Dursleys, he would never have been given the slightest inkling that magic even existed."

"He is indeed fortunate that you intervened," Dumbledore replied, a small measure of sarcasm in his tone. "So — may I have your vow that you will not initiate any conversation with Harry, but will wait until he calls upon you?"

"If that's the way you want it, Professor," I said, and we both stood, then shook hands to seal the deal. Dumbledore, however, did not release my hand, but took out his wand.

"Will you perform the Unbreakable Vow with me, Mr. Monroe?" he asked.

I looked at him a long moment. "I will," I said, finally, "if you will make one with me, to say nothing to Harry about me that you believe to be false."

"Agreed," Dumbledore said, and I took out my wand as well. We each touched our wands to our joined hands — his wand touching my hand, my wand touching his. Since we would each be making a vow we would be the other's Bonder. "I will begin," Dumbledore said. I nodded.

"Do you, James Monroe, agree not to speak to, or other make contact with, Harry Potter, unless he shall contact you first, for a period of one year, beginning today?"

"I do," I said. A streamer of brilliant red flame issued from the tip of Dumbledore's wand, weaving itself around our hands.

I then spoke. "Do you, Albus Dumbledore, agree not to speak falsely about me to Harry Potter for a period of one year, beginning today?"  
"I do," Dumbledore said, and another flame issued from my wand, encircling our hands and entwining itself with the first flame.

"_Votus infragilus_!" we both said, at the same time, and the red flames were absorbed into our hand, which glowed red themselves for a moment. The Vows were made.

Releasing my hand, Dumbledore said, "And now, Mr. Monroe, I must return to Hogwarts, to continue preparations for the coming school year."

"Keeping you busy, is it?" I asked, solicitously.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, sighing. "Only just this morning I finalized the agreement for our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

"Professor Quirrel," I said, remembering who'd had the job in the first book.

"Why, yes," Dumbledore looked at me curiously. "How did you know?"

"Oh," I said, "I believe Harry mentioned meeting him in the Leaky Cauldron, when he and Hagrid came through on their way to Diagon Alley."

Dumbledore nodded absently, then bowed slightly to me. "Your servant, sir," he said, then turned and strode away. Now alone, I tossed some Galleons on the table, then stopped, wondering what to do next. Dumbledore might think he had gotten the better of me in our exchange of vows. I would just have to hope that Harry would be proactive about trying to stay in touch with me.

***

After picking up Harry's books at Flourish and Blotts, then stopping next door for some parchment, quills and ink, since Harry wasn't sure how much he'd need when at school, they then walked across to Eeylops Owl Emporium, a rather dimly-lit shop that seemed to have dozens of pairs of bright, shining eyes staring at them from all directions. The place smelled woodsy, and Harry looked around at the different types of owls in the place.

"I think I'll have Dad buy me an owl," Dudley was saying as he stared at the different ones hooting and blinking around him. "I could teach it to catch little dogs in our neighborhood."

"Don't be daft," Hagrid admonished him. "Owls aren't for tormentin' other animals. They're dead useful — carry yer mail to other wizards an' ev'rything. All the kids at school are mad for them. Besides, a Muggle like you don't need one anyway."

"Do too!" Dudley argued. "Me and Harry could write letters to each other from school!"

"If I get an owl, Dudley," Harry said absently, looking at a barn owl. It wasn't quite what he had in mind for a pet. "I can send it back and forth between us — we'd only need the one."

"Oh," Dudley said. Then, "But I want one, too!"

"Then plan on bein' disappointed," Hagrid growled, and Dudley fell silent.

Harry had fallen silent as well; he was looking at the most beautiful bird he'd ever seen — a snowy owl, looking sleepily at him, as it had just awakened at their approach.

"A fine example of _Bubo scandiacus_," the shop owner told him. "We just received her yesterday."

"She's brilliant, isn't she, Hagrid?" Harry whispered. The owl turned toward Harry, hooting softly, and seemed to enjoy it when Harry stroked her head softly.

"I'd say it's love at first sight," Hagrid chuckled. Dudley stuck a finger down his throat, in disgust.

A few minutes later, they walked out of the shop carrying a large cage with Harry's new owl inside, now fast asleep with her head tucked under her wing.

"So what're you going to call it," Dudley wanted to know, as they walked toward the exit from Diagon Alley.

"Dunno," Harry said, shrugging. "I hadn't thought about it yet. But I did see a name I liked, once — I think it was in _A History of Magic_. I'll call her Hedwig."

Dudley didn't look impressed. "Head-wig? What kind of name is _that_?"

"One I like," Harry replied, shortly. Dudley shrugged.

"Alright', boys," Hagrid said, as they walked out onto Charing Cross Road. "Let's get ev'rythin' packed away and get goin'." They returned to the car park where Hagrid had left the motorcycle; Hagrid paid the attendant (Harry helped with the Muggle money, which tended to confuse Hagrid, as Dudley watched, smirking) and they fastened Harry's supplies and Hedwig's cage to the back of the vehicle.

"All set," Hagrid said, finally, as he finished tying Hedwig's cage to the motorcycle. "Harry, you sit behind me, an' Dudley, you —" Hagrid looked around for Dudley. "Now where'd that great lump get off to? Dudley! Get back here!"

Dudley, who had his sunglasses back on, was returning from a corner of the car park, where several vehicles were parked in front of a short stone wall. "Just looking around," he shrugged, then squeaked in surprise as Hagrid lifted him with one hand and set him down on the motorcycle seat in front of him.

"_Now_ we're ready to go," Hagrid said, and they roared onto the street and back toward Little Whinging. It had been an enjoyable ride there with just him and Hagrid, Harry thought, but it was much less so going back, since Dudley insisted on squirming around in front of Hagrid, trying to get comfortable, and Hagrid was having difficulty keeping the motorcycle aimed straight.

On top of that, the roads were now busier than they'd been earlier in the morning, and between Dudley's complaining and Hagrid's dodging around between other cars on the road, Harry was very glad when the pulled up at last in front of number four, Privet Drive. Throwing a leg in the air behind Hagrid's back, Harry jumped off the motorcycle onto the curb, then turned to watch as Hagrid stood, throwing his massive tree-trunk of a leg easily over the motorcycle and lifting Dudley as he stood, stepping onto the curb.

Dudley suddenly clutched at Hagrid's overcoat, as if fearful the giant would drop him. "Don' worry," Hagrid told him gruffy. "I ain't dropped a kid yet." Dudley looked at the ground, then into Hagrid's beetle-black eyes, and nodded uncertainly. Hagrid set him gently on the ground.

Dudley took a deep breath, lifted his sunglasses to look at Harry and said, "See you inside." He nodded again at Hagrid, then turned and ran into the house.

"Humph," Hagrid snorted. "He might've at leas' helped yeh with yer stuff," he said, as they untied Hedwig's cage and his school items.

"Just as well," Harry muttered. "He's not very handy with school stuff." He didn't mention that Dudley also tended to nick things whenever he had the chance, and Harry had to keep his stuff securely stashed away in his pouch, which should be able to hold what he'd bought today.

They'd gotten everything off the motorcycle when Hagrid suddenly snapped his fingers. "Oh yeah — got one more thing for yeh, Harry," he said, reaching into another one of his pockets and removing a small black cube. He handed it to Harry, who examined it carefully.

It was a very small trunk, like a model, the kind of trunk students used for carrying their things to boarding schools. "Uh, thanks, Hagrid. Er — what is it?"

"What is it?" Hagrid looked surprised for a moment, then shrugged. "Ah, I fergot — yeh still don't know a lot of the kinds of things magic can do."

Harry wasn't going to disabuse Hagrid of this notion. "Okay, so… what is it?"

"It's a trunk for carrying yer stuff, of course," Hagrid said, as if it should have been perfectly obvious. That would have been Harry's guess, of course, but he didn't know how to activate the trunk and he wasn't about to start casting revealment spells at it, out here in the open. "Hang on," Hagrid said, reaching into the pocket he'd pulled the miniature trunk from. "Got the instructions right here."

Hagrid handed him a sheet of parchment and a small iron key. Harry read the parchment:

DIRK'S EXPANDABLE TRUNKS  
Since 1932  
Model 20

_Model 20 trunks expand to a size of 36" by 20" by 13". Deflated dimensions are 1-11/16" by 1" by 10/16". The model 20 is constructed with ¼" poplar, is leather-covered and felt-lined, with brass hinges and two leather handles. Easy-open key lock allows owner quick access. The key can only be used and the trunk opened when it is in the expanded configuration._

_To expand the trunk, tap the front three times in succession and say the words OPEN SESAME . To compress the trunk, repeat the same action, saying the words CLOSE SESAME ._

_To change the expansion phrase, use the spell Verbum Veneficus Auctum, followed by the new expansion phrase. To change the contraction phrase, use Verbum Veneficus Decresco, followed by the new contraction phrase._

_Enjoy your new Dirk's Expandable Trunk!_

Harry looked up at Hagrid, who was smiling benignly at him. "Thanks, Hagrid, but you shouldn't have —"

"Aaah," Hagrid waved off his comment. "Happy to do it, Harry! I sure am lookin' forward to seeing yeh at Hogwarts." He sniffled, then took out a tablecloth-sized handkerchief and blew into it noisily. Harry watched him, a bit uncomfortably. Hagrid sure wore his emotions on his sleeve, he thought.

"Anyway, let's get you squared away," Hagrid said, and after Harry expanded the trunk to full size (behind the motorcycle and with Hagrid standing in front of it, to hide the view from the neighbors), they put Harry's books and other equipment into it. Hagrid got back onto the motorcycle, starting it up, then turned around so he was heading north on Privet Drive.

"See yeh in a month, Harry," he waved, then roared up the street as Harry waved after him. Harry looked toward the house, where he could see two pairs of eyes watching him between the blinds: his aunt and uncle, no doubt, probably furious at him for going to school and cutting back their stipend, even though they never wanted him in the first place. It was only the money that was important to them, Harry thought, feeling bitter.

Well, he _would_ be going to Hogwarts, at last, and with an advantage that few students seemed to enjoy. Harry picked up Hedwig's cage and wheeled his trunk (two rollers popped out near the bottom, allowing it to move easily) toward the front door, wondering idly what Dumbledore and James Monroe talked about. He would probably find out sometime in the next 30 days, the next time he was over at Uncle Jimmy's. He usually came down to the library, when he knew Harry was there, to chat or practice spells or suggest books to read.

Neither his aunt nor uncle said anything when he came into the house; they simply stared at him from the living room as he carried Hedwig's cage up the stairs, dragging his new trunk behind him. The trunk was still very light, for all the stuff he had just put inside it. _Another benefit of magic_, Harry thought. Up in his room, he reflected that in the past three years, his life had changed more than he could have possibly imagined. The first seven years with the Dursleys had been nothing but day after day of unrelenting misery: following his aunt's orders, staying out of his uncle's way, and dodging Dudley and his gang, until hardly any place felt safe anymore.

Now, since learning he was a wizard, Harry's life was getting brighter every day. He had someone helping him learn magic, he'd met other wizards, both adults and those near his age, all of whom though highly of him. Even Professor Dumbledore, the wizard who'd originally put him into this mess, had done it to protect him, from what he understood.

In a little more than a month, Harry finally thought, he'd be going to Hogwarts! There, he hoped, he would find out what he was truly meant to do with his life.


	6. Welcome to Hogwarts

**Chapter 6 – Welcome to Hogwarts**

Harry dropped by Uncle Jimmy's house several times in August, looking through books in the library and even having an occasional soda from the kitchen, which he'd developed a taste for. He even considered ringing the bell to let Uncle Jimmy know he was there, but never quite got around to doing it. The house seemed deserted now, without his mentor to talk to; Harry never heard footsteps above him, never heard any other sounds through the door at the top of the staircase leading to the upstairs area. It was as if James Monroe had disappeared off the face of the Earth.

Back on Privet Drive, it was as if Harry had disappeared as well, except to Dudley. His aunt and uncle no longer shouted at him or ordered him about, but they no longer even acknowledged his presence except to step around him when necessary, or set him a place at the table for meals. If he didn't come down to eat, Harry would usually find a tray with some food on it outside his door. For the first couple of weeks, Harry thought he was in heaven, things were so peaceful. However, after a few weeks it began to get wearying, with no one talking to him but Dudley, and that only to sneer at him in front of his parents, or kiss his arse out of their view by congratulating him on going to Hogwarts or ask him questions about magic. Harry stopped answering Dudley's questions; he couldn't work out, anymore, whether his cousin was really trying to be friendly or just wanted to find out more about magic than he already knew.

Still, on September first, Harry and Dudley were both up at first light, unable to sleep from excitement. Harry paced the floor of his room, checking to make sure he had everything he needed for Hogwarts. He was taking his best Muggle clothing, to wear when he wasn't required to be in Hogwarts robes.

Beyond that…Harry had to admit there wasn't much else _for_ him to pack. His Nimbus 2000 was stored safely in the pouch Uncle Jimmy had given it to him, in his trunk, which in turn was in its compressed form and stowed in his rucksack Harry was carrying with him to Hogwarts. The clothing he was leaving behind was either too large, too small or too tattered to wear out in public, and he wouldn't need any of the furniture in his room. He doubted he would need the old alarm clock he'd scrounged from somewhere, years ago. Everything else stored in his room were Dudley's cast-off or broken toys. Some of his video games might be fun to have along — he doubted whether the students there would have seen _them_, at least the wizard-raised ones, but there wouldn't be any electricity at Hogwarts. Electricity didn't work reliably in the presence of a lot of magic, and Hogwarts was about as magical a place in Britain as one could imagine, according to _Hogwarts: A History_, a massive book, over a thousand pages long, that he'd read through over the last year, in anticipation of going there.

Harry had kept watch, through his window, for anyone coming down Privet Drive to their house. He'd hoped that Uncle Jimmy would be over, offering to take him to King's Cross Station for the trip to Hogwarts. But by 10 a.m. there was still no sign of him, and Harry knew the train would leave _promptly_ at 11; he dare not be late, lest he have to make his way to Hogwarts on his own, somehow. And since even _Hogwarts: A History_ was rather unclear about the exact location of the school, beyond it being somewhere in Scotland, Harry wasn't anxious to try finding it on his own.

Dudley's face appeared in the doorway. "Is he coming?" he asked, and Harry shook his head reluctantly.

"You're gonna have to leave before long, if Mum and Dad are going to get you to King's Cross before eleven," Dudley reminded him, needlessly.

"If they'll take me," Harry muttered, picking up his rucksack and walking to the door. "They've barely spoken to me in the past month."

"They're just really, really sad to see you go," Dudley said, deadpan. After a few moments both of them chuckled. "C'mon," Dudley said. "I can get them to take you." They went downstairs and into the kitchen, where Vernon sat, reading the morning paper and Petunia hovered over the stove, preparing lunch.

"Harry needs a ride to King's Cross," Dudley announced. There was no immediate reaction from either Vernon or Petunia — he kept on reading his paper and she continued to fix lunch. "Did you hear me?" Dudley went on, his voice increasing in volume. "I _said_, 'Harry needs a ride to—'"

"We heard you, son," Vernon cut him off, looking over the top of his paper at his son. "But what business is that of ours? The boy is doing what he wants to do, never mind what _we_ think. If he wants to run off to some God-forsaken place with a bunch of other freaks, then he'd better _do_ it, and be out of our hair." Vernon disappeared behind his paper once again.

Harry shook his head in resignation and began to turn away. But Dudley took hold of his arm. "Dad," he said to his father. "I want to go with him!"

There was a loud crash — Vernon, Harry and Dudley all looked up, startled, to see that Petunia had dropped the pot of food she'd been cooking. "What are you _talking_ about, Duddykins?" she shrieked, aghast. "You — you can't go to that — that _place_ with him!"

"I _know_ that, Mum," Dudley said. Harry heard disappointment in his voice. "But I want to go and see the train he's taking."

Harry looked at his cousin in surprise. Since when had Dudley become interested in trains? Dudley turned his head slightly toward Harry, and winked.

Vernon wasn't moved by his son's request, however. "You don't need to go see some bloody train the freaks ride on, son." He tossed the paper onto the table and glared at both of them. "What's the matter with you? Has _he_ —" pointing toward Harry "— done something to you? Or that Monroe fellow? Have they bewit— er, befuddled you?"

"Come _on_, Dad!" Dudley rolled his eyes at his father. "I want to go!"

"Not going to happen!" Vernon said dismissively. "No son of _mine_ is going to be seen hanging out with freaks and weirdos! And as for _you_ —" he spun on Harry, his face beginning to turn beet-red, "— you can take a bloody _bus_ to King's Cross, for all I care." Vernon snatched up his paper once again and disappeared behind it.

Harry, incensed by his uncle's rudeness, even to his own son, was marshalling a scathing retort, when suddenly a light exploded in his brain. _The Bus_! Of course! He could take the Knight Bus to King's Cross! "Fine," he said to his uncle. "See you, then." He glanced at his aunt, who carefully kept her eyes averted, then spun on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, followed by Dudley.

"What're you going to do now?" Dudley asked quietly, in the hall.

"Just what your dad said," Harry told him. At Dudley's confused expression, he smiled and said. "You'll see. Come on, help me with my stuff."

They carried Hedwig's cage out to the curb in front of the house, along with Harry's rucksack, slung over his back. It didn't look like much, but he was carrying everything important he owned in the world: his wand, his broom, his books and school equipment, his school robes and decent regular clothes. There were also some odds and ends in his storage pouch and some junk from his room in his trunk.

"Now what?" Dudley asked, looking around the street. "Did you get Uncle Jimmy to come pick you up?"

"No," Harry said, reaching into the pouch hanging around his neck and taking out his wand. "We've got another way to get there." He held the wand up in the air.

BANG.

A violently purple triple-decker bus suddenly appeared, from out of nowhere, in a blinding flash of light. Dudley jumped backwards two feet from a standing start. "What-the-hell-is-_that_?" he said breathlessly, a rush of surprise and excitement sweeping over him at seeing this new, magical contraption rumbling in front of them.

Harry felt it too, even though he'd known what to expect. The Knight Bus was emergency transportation for witches or wizards who found themselves stranded in places with no other means of getting out. He'd read about it a couple of years ago, in a travelogue of Wizarding Britain, and had promptly forgotten about it until Vernon's disdainful remark about Harry riding a bus to school, for all he cared.

The door of the Bus opened and an elderly man, dressed in a purple uniform and wearing very thick glasses, stared at them. "Ar," he said.

"Uh, hello," Harry replied. "We need a ride, please, sir?"

"Ar," the man said again. "Come aboard."

Dudley grabbed Hedwig's cage and followed Harry up the steps. Inside the bus, instead of orderly rows of seats as was usual on Muggle buses, there was a haphazard jumble of mismatched chairs scattered throughout the bottom level of the bus, arranged more or less next to the windows. Some were lying on their sides. A motley collection of passengers, mostly elderly witches and wizards, were scattered throughout the Bus, chatting with one another or peering out of the windows at their surroundings.

The old conductor was staring at them in frank curiosity; finally, he seemed realize that they'd never been on the Bus before. "Ar," he said, then sighed and began a prepared speech. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Jus' stick out yer wand hand, step on board, an' we'll take yer ennywhere ye want to go, 'slong as it's above water. My name is Ernie Prang, an' I'll be yer conductor today." When neither Harry nor Dudley responded after he finished speaking, Ernie sighed again and said, "Where are yeh going, then?"

"Oh," Harry said, shaking his head. He'd been so mesmerized at seeing the Knight Bus for the first time he'd scarcely paid attention to what the old man was saying. "Uh, we're going to King's Cross Station, in London."

"Ar," Ernie said. "Eleven Sickles. Each." He held out his hand. As Harry dug into his purse for the money, Ernie added. "Yeh can get hot chocolate or tea for fifteen, if you want."

"Yeah," said Dudley.

"No," said Harry, handing over a Galleon and five Sickles. Ernie looked at the money, then nodded.

"Ar," he said, turning away. "Take yer seats, an' hold on t' sumfink."

"I wanted some hot chocolate," Dudley protested, as they found two chairs to sit in. "I'm helping you get to school, aren't I?"

"Because you want to see more magic," Harry snorted. He was watching Ernie, who'd gone forward to the front of the bus to speak to the driver, another elderly wizard who looked, if possible, even older than Ernie. "_And_ you want to take the mickey out of your mum and dad, for turning you down."

"So what if I do?" Dudley said, indifferently. "What's it to you, you don't —"

BANG.

The Bus lurched violently, tipping over half the chairs on the first deck, including Dudley's. Harry only avoided falling over because he'd grabbed a brass candleholder on a nearby wall. Hedwig's cage had tipped over as well, and she was screeching angrily.

"Little Hangleton," Ernie announced, and a witch and wizard couple got off.

"I didn't think it was going to be this bumpy," Harry said, straightening Hedgwig's cage and holding it upright, as Dudley climbed to his feet and righted his chair.

"This is stupid," Dudley snarled, plopping back into his seat, which creaked ominously under his weight. "Who'd want to ride on something like —"

BANG.

They both managed to remain upright this time; Harry watched as a couple of wide-brimmed hats tumbled by, then zoomed back to their owners a few seconds later, as Ernie announced, "Ottery St. Catchpole," and an older wizard with shoulder-length white hair staggered by them, clutching at the backs of chairs to steady himself, and exited the bus as a group of people got on: six people, all with flaming red hair, four boys, a girl and a woman. Harry recognized three of the boys at once.

This was the Weasleys, the family that owned the orchard where he'd first practiced with his Nimbus 2000, last Christmas. One of the twins saw him and waved, then came over to shake his hand.

"Hello there, Harry, long time no see," he grinned. "It's Fred," he added, for clarification.

"Hi," Harry said. "On your way to King's Cross, too?"

"Yeah," Fred said, dropping into a chair behind him and Dudley. George dropped into the chair beside his twin, then reached over to shake Harry's hand.

"How's it going, Harry?" George said. He looked at Dudley. "Who's your friend, here?"

"My cousin, Dudley," Harry said, and George and Fred shook hands with him as well. Ron came up at that moment, after securing his trunk at the front of the Bus.

"Hi, Harry," he said, breathlessly. "Long time no see."

"Oh, very original greeting, Ronnie," Fred said, disdainfully.

"As if Harry would even remember you," George added, giving Harry a wink. Harry stifled a smile. These Weasley twins were sure pips, he thought.

Ron's expression was going spare, as Harry hadn't returned his greeting yet. Harry finally looked round at the youngest Weasley boy: Ron was even taller than Harry remembered him, nearly as tall as the twins, but thinner, and gangling, with big hands and feet, and freckles and a long nose on his face. Harry smiled and said, "Course I remember you, Ron. We almost won that Quidditch match against your brothers here, didn't we?"

"Yeah," Ron agreed, now smiling. "If they hadn't cheated, we would have!"

"_Cheated_?" Fred said, his tone incredulous. "Oh, little brother, we hadn't even _begun_ to cheat when we wiped up the pitch with you two firsties."

Ron was about to retort when the woman who'd come onboard with them, followed by another, older red-haire boy and a younger girl, walked up to them. "Right," she said, "the fare's all taken care of." She looked sternly at the twins. "Now mind you two don't go playing any tricks on Waldo this time! He said he's thinking about retiring soon."

"Who's Waldo?" Harry asked.

Fred leaned forward to the back of Harry's chair. "The driver," he said, pointing toward the elderly wizard at the wheel of the bus. "By some strange coincidence, he's been thinking of retiring ever since George and me began riding the bus."

"Hey, Mum," George said, jabbing a thumb at Harry. "Guess who's in first year, along with Ron?"

The lady, who was plump, with a kindly face, smiled at him. "Hello, dear. Are you looking forward to Hogwarts?"

"Oh, yes," Harry said emphatically. "I've been ready to go for years!"

"Well," she said, turning a reproachful eye on her twin sons. "I'm glad to see _someone_ is interested in school! What's your name, dear?"

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said.

The woman blinked several times, in surprise. "Are you, really? Well, I remember James and Lily had their son a few months after Ron was born!" She put out her hand, and Harry took it automatically. "It's very nice to meet you, Harry!"

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Harry said, politely. The woman released his hand, then looked at hers, bemused, as if trying to fathom that she'd just shaken Harry Potter's hand.

The last Weasley boy, standing behind her, reached around to shake his hand as well. "Percy Weasley, Harry! I'm very glad to meet you, too." His voice had a very formal tone to it, and Harry felt as if he were being introduced to the principal of Stonewall High, rather than a fellow student on a magical bus.

"Percy, here, is the most important Weasley you're likely to meet this year, Harry," Fred said in Harry's ear, as the older Weasley boy let go of his hand.

"That's right," George agreed. "Percy, you see, is a prefect."

"A perfect prefect," Fred added.

"Percy the perfect prefect," Ron said, and from behind their mother came a giggle, as the youngest Weasley stuck her head out from behind her mother, laughing.

"Shut up," Percy said to his brothers, as Mrs. Weasley turned toward her daughter.

"And this," she said to Harry, "Is my daughter, Ginny."

She and Harry stared at each other a long moment, but Ginny didn't come any closer. "Hi," Harry said finally, and she nodded, then disappeared behind her mother.

"She's a bit shy," her mother said, explaining to Harry.

"Since when?" Ron wanted to know. "Normally we can't get her to shut up!"

"Hush, Ron," his mother said quickly. She looked around, then pointed to some chairs further back. "Well, Percy, Ginny and I will sit over there. Mind yourselves, boys, and be nice to Harry." She and her other two children hurried over to sit down before the Bus took off again.

Harry glanced at Dudley. His cousin was stone-faced, arms folded across his chest. "What's wrong?" Harry asked quietly, though it was easy to guess.

"This was supposed to be _our_ trip!" Dudley hissed from the corner of his mouth, not looking at Harry. "Now it feels like everyone on the damned bus is riding with you except me!"

"Now you know," Harry said, "what it feels like, being excluded."

Dudley slumped a bit. "Yeah, I guess," he said at last. He looked at Harry, his expression softening. "Sorry. I guess I was a bit rough on you, me an my mates."

"A bit," Harry agreed, but smiled as he said it. "But it's okay, Dud —"

BANG.

"King's Cross," Ernie called out, as a half-dozen people picked themselves off the floor of the Bus, including Ron. Harry saw a bit of dirt from the floor had gotten on his nose. The other Weasleys were on their feet and heading to the front of the Bus, where their trunks were tied in place. Harry and Dudley joined them, carrying Hedwig's cage, while Hedwig herself looked around, annoyed at the noise and jumping about.

"Where's your trunk, Harry?" Ron asked, seeing Harry with his cage. "I'll get it for you."

"Thanks, Ron, but I've got everything in here," Harry said, turning so Ron could see the rucksack on his back. He started to mention the bit of dirt on Ron's nose, but Ron interrupted him.

"Packing pretty light, aren't you," he whistled, pulling out his own trunk and following Fred and George as they carried theirs off the bus.

"Well, it's — I'll explain later," Harry said, following him out, with Dudley helping him with Hedwig's cage. The other Weasley brother, Percy, came off the Bus behind Harry; he saw that Percy was the only one of them that had a cage with his trunk. In it was a small brown and white screech-owl; Harry remembered seeing one like it in Eeylops, when Hagrid was buying Hedwig. The owner had told them they were rare in Britain, since the screech-owl was native to the Americas.

Harry looked around mentally counting Weasleys, but could only come up with five — the four brothers and their mother; the daughter, Ginny, seemed to have disappeared, until Harry caught a glimpse of her skirt, behind her mother. Fred and George returned at that moment, having gone to get carts, and they loaded up their stuff and began pushing them toward the platforms.

"Let's see that ticket again," Dudley said, and took over pushing the cart as Harry fished it out of a pocket. He looked at it — a bit enviously, Harry thought. "Platform 9¾, huh," Dudley said, reading it again. How d'you suppose _that_ works out?"

"No idea," Harry said, taking the ticket back.

"I sure wish I was going with you," Dudley said, sounding wistful.

"I do too," Harry said, honestly, "if it meant seeing you do some actual studying." Dudley snorted and punched Harry lightly in the arm.

The platforms were very busy that morning, and it took them some time to push their carts to platform nine. "As usual, it's packed with Muggles, of course," Mrs. Weasley was saying resignedly. "Ah, there it is," she said, pointing to the dividing barrier between platforms nine and ten.

Ginny, holding her mother's hand, piped up, "Mum, can't I go, too…?"

"Not yet, dear," her mother said. "You're not old enough yet. Now shush. Percy, you go ahead first."

Percy nodded, then pushed his cart at the dividing barrier. Harry glanced at his cousin — Dudley's eyes were wide. "What's that silly prat doing?" he whispered at Harry. "He's going to ram that —" Dudley stopped, speechless, as Percy, running toward the barrier, suddenly wasn't there any more. "Wha — where'd he _go_?"

"Alright, Fred," Mrs. Weasley said, pointing to one of the twins. "You next."

The twin looked at her indignantly. "I'm not Fred, I'm George! Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you _tell_ I'm George?"

"Ah, I'm sorry, George, dear!" she said apologetically. "Go ahead, then."

The twin lined up his cart, then turned and winked at Harry, and said to his mother, "Only joking, Mum. I'm Fred." He ran toward the barrier, and like his brother Percy, suddenly was gone from the platform. George followed a moment later, leaving only Ron, Ginny and Mrs. Weasley with Harry and Dudley.

Harry suddenly realized that they hadn't figured out how Dudley was to get back home, after he left. Dudley had seen how the Knight Bus worked, he could probably handle giving Ernie eleven Sickles. But…if he didn't make it home, for some reason, it would be Harry's fault, no matter who was to blame.

It couldn't be helped, then. "Uh, excuse me, Mrs. Weasley, ma'am?" he said, before Ron could go through the barrier. "My cousin Dudley, here, isn't going to Hogwarts. Do you think you'd be able to escort him back to our home, when you leave King's Cross?"

"I can do it myself," Dudley said, in an annoyed tone.

But Mrs. Weasley was smiling kindly at both of them. "I'd be happy to, dear." She put a hand on Dudley's arm. "We can have a nice chat on the way back, won't that be fun?" she said to him.

"Uh —" Dudley looked at Harry, then at Mrs. Weasley, then abruptly gave up. "Sure. That'll be fine."

"Go on, Ron," his mother pointed to the barrier, and Ron nodded and went on through, as Harry fished fifteen Sickles out of his purse, so Dudley could have a drink, then changed his mind an handed him a Galleon.

"Here's enough for a hot chocolate," he said, and you'll get two silver coins change. Dudley took it and thrust the coin in his pocket, then stuck out his hand.

"Thanks for letting me come along, Harry," he said, and Harry nodded and shook hands with him. He then aimed his cart toward the barrier, as Ginny, Dudley and Mrs. Weasley watched.

"Just go straight toward the barrier, dear," Mrs. Weasley was saying, as he was lining up. "Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important." Harry nodded and started forward, going at a trot. Just as the cart was about to hit the barrier, he seemed to pass into darkness — then, a moment later, into light once again. Harry looked around.

A large scarlet steam engine sat next to the platform, which was packed with people, none of whom he could have mistaken for Muggles. There was a sign overhead that said, _Hogwarts Express - 11:00 A.M_. Behind him was a wrought-iron arch with a sign saying _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_ on it. He was here at last!

He pushed his cart along the platform, watching for an unused carriage, but the first few were already packed. Up ahead, he saw Ron waving for him to come forward, and went past a group of students shrieking as a black boy with dreadlocks opened a box in his arms and a hairy leg came out, poking around.

"I thought I'd find us an empty compartment," Ron said, when Harry joined him, and Harry nodded agreement. Together, they wrestled Ron's trunk into an empty compartment and sat down facing each other.

"Whew!" Ron said. "All set!" Just then a woman's voice called his name, and he cast his eyes heavenward. "Be right back," he said, running out to see what his mother wanted. Harry sat back, half-hidden in the corner of the compartment; he could see the platform outside his window, where Mrs. Weasley, her daughter Ginny, and his cousin Dudley were standing. They were joined by the twins and, a moment later, by Ron. Mrs. Weasley pulled out her handkerchief.

"Ron, there's something on your nose," she said, moistening the handkerchief with her tongue, and before Ron could get away, she'd grabbed him and begun wiping the end of his nose. Harry smiled, a bit wistfully; that was something he'd _never_ have to worry about his Aunt Petunia doing.

Ron wriggled free a moment later. "Mum — geroff me!"

The twins were snickering. "Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got sumfink on his nosie?" one of them teased him. Ginny giggled.

"Shut up," Ron said, looking around, mortified.

"Here comes Percy," the other twin said. Percy strode up, already wearing his flowing black Hogwarts robes; Harry could see, pinned to his chest, a shiny silver badge with the letter _P_ on it.

"I can't stay long, Mother," he told her, importantly. "I'm up front with the other prefects, we've got two compartments by ourselves."

Fred and George looked at each other. "I wonder if they're all perfect prefects, like Prefect Percy here?" Fred wondered.

"I would hope so," George added. "It would be even more perfectly perfect, if they were." Ginny was laughing at them, and even Dudley was smiling, probably because he didn't want to appear thick, Harry thought.

"Oh, shut up," Percy snapped.

"All right, dear," his mother said, fondly, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Have a good term, send me an owl when you get there." Percy nodded and left.

"And you two," she said, turning to the twins when Percy was gone. Her tone had become stern. "Behave yourselves this year. I don't want another owl telling me you've — you've blown up a toilet or something —"

"We never blew up a toilet, Mum," George said.

"But it's a good idea," Fred added. "Thanks for the hint!"

"Don't you dare," their mother said warningly.

"Alright, keep your hair on," Fred sighed, as a whistled sounded on the engine.

"Hurry up," Mrs. Weasley said, kissing each boy on the cheek in turn, then watching as they scrambled on the train. Ginny began to cry, and Fred and George leaned out the carriage door toward her.

"Don't cry, Ginny — we'll send you loads of letters," Fred said.

"We'll send you a toilet seat, too," George added.

"_George_!"

"Only joking, Mum."

The train began to move, and Harry watched Mrs. Wealsey waving at them, with Dudley standing beside her and Ginny, now both laughing and crying, running after the train until it picked up speed and she was left behind. She stopped, waving. Harry sighed with relief; he was finally on his way to Hogwarts!

"Have you seen a toad?" Harry spun around. A girl with bushy brown hair stood in the compartment doorway, giving him a cool look as she scanned the compartment.

"Excuse me?" Harry said, confused. It was not the kind of question he expected someone to open his compartment door and ask.

"A toad," the girl said again, pronouncing the word more clearly. Harry could see that her front teeth were rather large. "A boy named Neville has lost his toad and he's very upset. I'm helping him look for it."

"Who are you?" Harry asked her.

"Me?" She looked surprised to be asked. "I'm Hermione Granger. This is my first year at Hogwarts. It's Neville's first year, too — I wouldn't want him to get off to a bad start, you know."

Harry nodded, impressed. This girl hadn't been on the train ten minutes and she was already taking charge and solving problems.

"So…" the girl said, when Harry didn't continue. "Was that nod a 'Yes' to my question, or were you just checking for rattles?"

Harry snorted laughter. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I haven't seen a toad. But I'll keep an eye out for it, and let you know if I see it."

"Fine, then," she said, and walked away, just as Ron showed up.

"Who was that?" he asked Harry, as he sat down.

"Hermione Granger," Harry said. "She was looking for a toad."

"Ugh," Ron said. "She didn't look like the type to own one."

"She's helping some boy named Neville find his," Harry explained.

"Want to see what I've got for a pet?" Ron asked, and Harry nodded. Ron reached into his jacket and pulled out a fat, gray rat, which was asleep. Ron set him down in his lap. "This is Scabbers. He was Percy's pet when he started at Hogwarts. When Percy made prefect, my dad bought him an owl, but he couldn't aff— er, I mean, he decided to give me Scabbers." Ron looked away, embarrassed.

"I know what you mean," Harry said. "I didn't have any money to buy anything for school, until I found out, a month ago, that my parents had left me some at Gringotts." This seemed to make Ron feel better. He began telling Harry about his brothers — his oldest brother, Bill, had been Head Boy in his final year at Hogwarts. His next brother, Charlie, had just left school; he'd been Captain and Seeker of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. His brother Percy, a fifth-year, had just been made a prefect.

"And Fred and George joke around a lot," Ron finished, "but they're both smart, and get good grades, and everyone likes them. And now it's my turn," he added, sounding glum.

"What do you want to do at school?" Harry asked him.

"Well, not fail, for starters," Ron said earnestly. "After that, I dunno. Maybe get on the Quidditch team. I think I could be a pretty good Chaser."

Harry nodded agreement. "You did really well against Fred and George last Christmas."

"You think?" Ron asked, brightening. They launched into a discussion of Quidditch. It turned out Ron followed the Chudley Cannons team, which had won their league 21 times, the last time being in 1892. Lately, Ron admitted, they hadn't done so well, having changed their motto in 1972 from "We shall conquer," to "Let's all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best." Between the extensive reading Harry had done on Quidditch in the last nine months, and Ron's enthusiasm, they were still talking when there was a clattering outside their compartment and a cheerful, dimpled woman slid back their door and asked, "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Harry hadn't eaten anything since the night before, and he leaped for the door, but Ron didn't move. "Don't you want something off the cart?" Harry asked, from the doorway. Ron held up a lumpy package.

"Got some sandwiches, thanks," he said, weakly. Harry decided this probably wasn't the reason he wasn't getting anything — more likely, he had no money to spend.

"At least come help me pick out stuff to try," he coaxed Ron. "Go on."

Ron followed Harry into the corridor, and they perused the contents of the cart. "Got any Mars Bars?" Harry asked the cart lady.

"Sorry dear," she shook her head. "Just what you see here."

"There's what you want to try," Ron pointed. "Chocolate Frogs. Oh, and Cauldron Cakes are good. Pumpkin Pasties, too! Oh, and there's Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, you should have a go at them. And Licorice Wands, and Drooble's Best Blowing Gum…"

Harry was careful to buy double or even triple what he thought he could handle, so he could offer Ron the extras. Even so, it cost him about the same as the Knight Bus fare from Privet Drive to King's Cross: he paid the cart lady eleven Sickles and twelve Knuts for the lot. They each carried an armful back into the compartment and dumped it into an empty seat.

Ron was looking enviously at the haul of candy sitting only inches away, as Harry tore into a Pumpkin Pasty. "Hungry, are you, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "I didn't have breakfast this morning, and I'm starving. You want something, too? I've got loads more'n I'm going to eat."

"No," Ron shook his head, half-heartedly. "I've got my lunch here." He unwrapped the package and peeked in one of the sandwiches inside, then groaned. "Eeh, she _knows_ I don't like corned beef…"

"Go on," Harry said again. "Have a pasty." After a few moments, Ron grinned, picked one up, unwrapped it, and bit into it.

"Mmm," he said. "They taste _so_ good!" Harry nodded, happy to have someone to share with who seemed genuinely capable of appreciating it. With Dudley, he always felt like he was putting on a façade, something just to keep his parents from getting suspicious about what they were doing together, which was supposed to be — nothing. The more Harry talked to Dudley anywhere his parents could hear, the more suspicious they became. Harry put that out of his mind, and concentrated on enjoying the sweets he'd bought.

When they got around to the Chocolate Frogs, Ron said, "These are good, but the real treat is the Famous Wizard or Famous Witch card inside every one. I'm still trying to find Agrippa.

Harry nodded and opened the box, unwrapping the frog, then looked at the card that came with it. Ironically, it was Albus Dumbledore, whom Harry immediately recognized. Dumbledore winked at him, and Harry turned over the card to read the inscription on the back.

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE  
Currently Headmaster of Hogwarts  
Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous  
for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of  
dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore  
enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Which told Harry two more things about Dumbledore that he hadn't known, about the chamber music and the tenpin bowling. He dropped the card back onto the seat and popped the Chocolate Frog into his mouth.

They carefully tried out the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got coconut, baked beans, strawberry, grass, coffee, sardine, and a gray one that Ron was afraid to try, that turned out to be pepper.

There was a knock on the door, and a round-faced boy leaned in, looking tearful. "Sorry," he sniffed, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

"Are you Neville?" Harry asked. The boy nodded.

"Sorry, we haven't," both Ron and Harry shook their heads.

"He keeps getting away!" Neville wailed. "I found him a few hours ago but he keeps getting away!"

"He'll turn up," Harry said. Neville nodded miserably and left.

After Neville was gone, Ron frowned and said, "Bit pathetic to have a frog, I think. I think I'd lose mine quick as I could, if I had one. Mind you, though, I've got Scabbers, so I can't talk."

Ron looked down at his rat, still asleep on his leg. "He might be dead and we wouldn't know the difference," he said, in disgust. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday, so he'd be more interesting, but the spell didn't work. Here, I'll show you…"

Ron rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a battered, old wand. Harry frowned upon seeing it — it was chipped in several places and he could see a bit of the core, a unicorn hair, visible near the tip. Ron saw him looking at it.

"Yeah," he shrugged, embarrassed, "it's a mess, isn't it? Well, anyway —" Ron had the wand poised over Scabbers when the compartment door suddenly opened, and both he and Harry looked up, surprised. It was the brown-haired girl Hermione, the one who'd been looking for the toad earlier in the day.

"Neville's toad is missing again," she said, stepping in, "Has anyone here —" she suddenly spied Ron's wand. "Oh, doing magic, are you?"

"No, I'm about to conduct someone playing the ratophone," Ron shot back.

"Oh, very clever," the girl said, giving him a scathing look. She sat down across from him. "Well, let's see it, then."

"Er — all right." Ron cleared his throat and spoke.

"_Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,  
__Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."_

He pointed the wand at Scabbers, but nothing happened.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" the girl said. She spoke very fast. "It didn't work very well anyway, did it? I've practiced a bit with a few simple spells and they've all worked for me. It was quite a surprise when I got my letter — nobody in our family is magical at all, but I was ever so pleased, of course. And Hogwarts is the best magical school in the world, I've heard. I hope I'm ready for class — I've memorized all our course books by heart. Did I introduce myself earlier? I think I did, but anyway I'm Hermione Granger. And who might you be?" she asked, looking at Ron.

Ron was looking at her, his mouth open, trying to make sense of what she was saying. "Uhhh —"

"That's Ron Weasley," Harry said, quickly, covering for Ron. "And I'm Harry Potter."

She whirled around to look at him. "Are you, really? I've read a lot about you, you know — you're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Moments of the Twentieth Century_."

"Am I?" Harry said, feigning surprise. He'd read all of those books and others besides, but there was no reason to let Miss Granger in on that at the moment.

"Of course you are!" Hermione appeared shocked Harry didn't know. "What House do you think you'll be in? I've been reading up on them and I can't decide between Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Both would be good houses, but Ravenclaw has a better record for turning out truly brilliant wizards… Well, anyway, I'd better go and help look for Neville's toad, we'll be at Hogwarts before long. And you two should change, you should be in your robes for the Sorting."

"Thanks," Harry said dryly. "We'll get right on that."

She stood, stepping into the corridor, then said, "See you there," and left.

Ron shook his head, trying to clear it, after she left. "Whatever house she's in," he said, fervently, "I hope _I'm_ not in it." He sighed and tossed his wand back into his trunk. "I dunno why I cast that bloody spell in front of her anyway — George gave it to me, he probably knew it was a dud!"

"Well, sometimes," Harry said casually, reaching over to stroke Scabbers back and sides, "you have to work the object a bit, to get the magic flowing." He concentrated on the rat's fur and thought the words _Mutatis Coloros Croceus_.

"Whoa!" Ron jerked in surprise as Scabbers fur suddenly changed to yellow. "How'd you do that, Harry?!"

"I was just petting him," Harry said, innocently. "Maybe the spell _did_ work."

"No way!" Ron said, lifting Scabbers to get a better look at him. The rat coughed and made a short, squeaking sound, before going to sleep again. Ron looked him over carefully. "He's completely yellow," he said. "I can't believe that ruddy spell worked!"

Harry was staring at the hand he'd used to pet Scabbers with. Something had felt strange when he touched the rat — it didn't _feel_ like a real rat, for some reason. But that didn't make any sense; Ron said the rat had been Percy's pet since he'd started at Hogwarts. But something wasn't right…

Just then the compartment door slid open again, but it wasn't Hermione or Neville this time. Three boys entered the compartment, sizing up the two of them.

Harry recognized the boy in the middle: they'd met a month ago in Madam Malkin's shop, though today he showed a lot more interest in Harry than he had back then.

"Is it true, then?" he asked. "They're saying all up and down the train that Harry Potter is in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yeah," Harry said, straightening up a bit. The two boys on either side of the blond boy were bigger than him; both of them looked a lot meaner than the boy between them. They looked like they were his bodyguards.

Seeing where he was looking, the blond boy jerked a thumb at one of them and said, "This is Crabbe, and the other one's Goyle." Both of the boys behind him grinned and cracked their knuckles. "And I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

Ron snorted, hiding a smile. Malfoy looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Think my name's funny, do you? Well, it's not hard to guess who you are. My father told me the Weasleys all have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." Ron reddened but said nothing.

Harry had been tired of this git two minutes after meeting him the first time, and that was when he was just some kid walking around in Diagon Alley, like him. Here, realizing he was going to be seeing Malfoy for the entire school year, the idea was becoming positively loathsome.

Malfoy turned back to him. "It won't be long before you figure out that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort." His eyes flicked momentarily to Ron, then back. "I can help you there." He held out his hand to shake Harry's.

Harry didn't reach for it, however. "You know what, Draco?" he said with a sneer. "I think I can figure out who the wrong sort are, all by myself, thanks."

Draco put his hand down, not looking happy. "I'd be careful, saying things like that, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit nicer, you'll end up the same as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. If you hang out with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid fellow, it'll rub off on you."

Both Harry and Ron were on their feet immediately. "Oh yeah?" Ron said, his face almost as red as his hair now. "Say that again, then."

Malfoy grinned at their aggressive stances. "You're not going to try and fight us, are you?" he sneered.

"You probably better get out of here, now," Harry said quietly.

"But we don't feel like leaving. Do we, boys? We've eaten all our candy, but _you_ still seem to have some." Malfoy nodded and Goyle, grinning, started to reach for one of the Chocolate Frogs on the seat nearby. Harry put up his hands and took a step back.

Goyle stopped in mid-reach, remaining motionless for several seconds before Malfoy snapped, "Well, go on and grab one, Goyle!"

Goyle's hand was trembling. "C-can't," he said. "I can't m-move my hand…"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Malfoy snapped. "Crabbe, you do it!"

Crabbe, smirking at Ron and Harry, swaggered forward to take some of the sweets laying on the seat, but he stopped as well, reaching around behind his back. "Aaah," he said, beginning to scratch himself furiously. "Something's makin' me all itchy!"

Goyle began scratching himself as well. "What's going on?! It itches! It _itches_!!"

"What the hell are you doing, Potter?!" Malfoy demanded, staring at the two boys now scratching themselves furiously.

"Didn't you read _Hogwarts: A History_, Malfoy?" Harry said, lowering his hands and grinning at the three of them. "It says the compartments on the Hogwarts Express are bewitched to keep the students from fighting. Anyone who starts a fight gets hit with the Itching Jinx."

"Wicked!" Ron said, now laughing at Crabbe and Goyle as well. Malfoy turned and fled, and the two larger boys followed him, still scratching themselves. Ron ran to the compartment door, shouting, "Run, you cowards!" He turned back, grinning at Harry. "I guess I'm lucky — I was about to hit Goyle!"

"What has been going on in here?" Hermione, the bushy, brown-haired girl was back, surveying the scene. She pointed back down the corridors. "Were you fighting with those boys just now?"

"No, they were fighting with _us_," Ron sniffed. "And they got jinxed for it as well!"

"Oh?" Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Did _you_ jinx them, then? I thought perhaps you tried to turn them yellow," she said, with a mischievous smile.

"Didn't you read _Hogwarts: A History_?" Ron said, disdainfully. "The train jinxed them, when they tried to fight us."

"What?" she looked completely baffled by that remark. "The _train_ jinxed them? What kind of rubbish is _that_ about? There's nothing in _Hogwarts: A History_ about a jinx on the train to stop students from fighting!"

"Look it up," Ron snapped. "And for your information," he added, pointing to Scabbers, still sleeping on the seat next to Harry's pile of sweets, "that spell worked after all!"

Hermione looked at the rat, then back at Ron skeptically. "That spell _couldn't_ have worked," she said, shaking her head. "It's not even a real spell! You probably used a Color-Change Charm on him."

"Nope," Ron said, gloating. "Wrong answer, Miss Know-It-All!"

Harry, who'd been silent up until now, said, "All right, Ron, no need to call her names."

Ron sighed, exasperated, but then relented. "Right, sorry, sorry," he said to her.

She shook her head, whether as a gesture of acceptance or dismissal, Harry couldn't tell. She looked at him and Ron and said, "I've just been up to speak to the conductor — he says we're nearly there."

"Good," Ron said dismissively, opening his trunk to get out his robes. "Why don't you leave, then, so we can get changed?"

"Fine, then," Hermione turned to go, then stopped at the door and turned back. "Oh, and by the way, Mr. Weasley," she sniffed, pointing at his face. "You've got some dirt on your nose, did you know?" Then she was gone.

Ron, glaring after her, rubbed the end of his nose as Harry smiled to himself. She was a pip too, this Hermione Granger. He looked out the window of the compartment. It was getting dark, but he could see mountains and a forest under a deep purple sky. And the train did seem to be slowing. They took off their jacket and put on their long, black robes.

A voice echoed throughout the corridors, announcing they would be arriving at Hogwarts in five minutes, and telling them to leave their luggage on the train, that it would be brought up to the school for them.

"Ready?" Harry asked, seeing how pale Ron looked. He felt nervous himself, in spite of the fact that he'd been longing for this day for years.

"Ready or not," Ron said. "We're here."

"Help me with this stuff," Harry said, remembering the sweets still scattered about the compartment. They gathered up what they hadn't eaten, stuffing it into their pockets, then joined the rest of the students flowing into the corridors as the train ground to a halt.

Students spilled out onto a small, dark platform, looking around to see what would happen next. The air was cold, and Harry shivered. He considered using the Body-Warming Charm on himself, but decided it would look strange if he was the only one not shivering as they made their way to the school.

Someone pointed to a lantern bobbing their way in the distance, and a voice Harry recognized boomed out, "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" Hagrid saw him and nodded. "All right there, Harry?" Harry smiled and nodded back.

"Alla you firs' years, follow me! And mind yer step, now!" Hagrid led them down a steep, narrow path, so dark that even with the lantern Hagrid was carrying they could see nothing on either side of the trail.

"Jus' a bit further, then," Hagrid told them, "an' you'll get yer first look at Hogwarts. It's just around this bend…"

The path opened suddenly into a clearing at the edge of a great black lake. On the other side, across the black, rippling water, perched on a high mountain, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers, its many windows sparkling in the night sky. There was a collective "Oooooh!" of awe and excitement from the students. Harry and Ron grinned happily at one another.

Hagrid was pointing to a fleet of small boats sitting in the water by the shore. "Here's how we're going over," he told them. "Now, mind you, no more than four to a boat!" Students began clambering into the boats, which pulled away from the shore to let empty boats move closer. Waiting in line, Harry noticed that Hermione and Neville, the boy who'd lost his toad, were standing directly behind them. Hermione was telling Neville that his toad was bound to turn up sometime soon. Ron rolled his eyes at Harry.

They got into a boat, and Hermione and Neville got in with them; their boat floated out into the lake. Hagrid, who was in a boat by himself, holding the lantern, pointed it toward the castle on the opposite side of the lake and said, loudly, "All right, first years — FORWARD!"

As one, the boats turned and began moving toward the castle, with Hagrid in the lead. Everyone was silent, looking up at the great castle as they got nearer and nearer, until it towered over them on the cliffs overlooking the lake. It looked like they were going to sail right into the cliff, but Hagrid shouted "Heads down!" and everyone bent forward as the boats slipped through a curtain of ivy which, Harry saw, hid a wide opening in the cliff face.

Traveling down a dark tunnel, they came at last to a sort of underground harbor, where the boats ran ashore. Everyone climbed out of their boat and stood looking around, wondering what would happen next.

"Oi!" Hagrid said. He'd been checking boats after they emptied and he reached into one and pulled out a small, squirming object. "Whose toad is this?"

"Trevor!" Neville shouted happily, and ran to claim him from the giant. Hagrid led them up a long passageway, emerging above ground a short distance from the front doors of the castle. The group of first yeas walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oaken front doors as Hagrid waited for them to assemble.

"All right," he said at last, when everyone was watching to see what he would do next. "Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad? Right, then! Welcome to Hogwarts, all of you!"

Standing near Hagrid, Harry smiled once again, no longer feeling nervous. He was here, and he was ready. This was going to be the best seven years of his life, here at Hogwarts.


	7. Holiday Shopping

**Chapter 7 – Holiday Shopping**

Despite my promise to Dumbledore not to contact Harry, I remained very proactive regarding his education during the fall of 1991. Harry had not contacted me during the month of August, and September first had come and gone with no contact as well, so I assumed he'd found his own way to Hogwarts. In truth, I would not have expected any less of him. Harry had learned quite a few skills since I first met him, back on his eighth birthday; now, at eleven, I hadn't been exaggerating when I'd said he could match any fifth-year at school.

I made some improvements to my library, expanding the Extension Charm to enlarge the amount of space, and adding a couple of sections to go along with the aisles of books. I put in a "media center," as I jokingly called it, consisting of an ornate wooden table holding a large stone bowl, engraved with runic symbols: a Pensieve. Around the table I placed cupboards for vials of memories. I planned to go on some "thought-expeditions," to locate some interesting memories, much like Dumbledore had done when searching for the reason why Voldemort hadn't died that night in Godric's Hollow. He'd already suspected Voldemort had created Horcruxes; in fact, he must have been almost certain of it by the time Voldemort had tried to kill Harry. Otherwise, why would he be convinced Voldemort had not died even after he'd been blasted by his own rebounding Killing Curse, that night of October 31, 1991?

Collecting thoughts for oneself is difficult enough, but collecting the thoughts of others can be even more time-consuming. I spent a lot of time arranging "chance" encounters with people, getting to know them and building their trust in me, so when I explained my "hobby" and request to them they did not immediately refuse me. People will often times tell you outrageous things about themselves only minutes after meeting you, but if you suggest that you'd like to _collect_ those outrageous moments of their lives and bottle them, they get shy very fast! Nonetheless, I persevered with a number of techniques to draw both wizards and Muggles into my confidence, and by late November had an impressive collection of memories to draw upon.

I was also keeping track, in a roundabout way, of the goings-on over at Mrs. Figg's house since Dudley and I had dropped in on her. I suppose I could have set up closed-circuit surveillance on her house, but it would have been awfully expensive to do so, even if I'd been in the Muggle British government. Also, as Dumbledore once mentioned, magic always leaves traces, so I didn't want to set up detection spells on Mrs. Figg's house — a cunning (and paranoid) wizard such as Mad-Eye Moody (or even a relatively intelligent Auror like Kingsley Shacklebolt) might be able to detect such spells, which would alert them that someone was spying on _them_.

Fortunately, the Wizarding world already had an excellent way to observe and record someone's activities passively, even if they didn't realize it. A pair of Omnioculars, normally used to view Quidditch matches, could easily be modified to monitor activity around Mrs. Figg's house. After Dumbledore left me at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour on July 31st, I spent some time looking for various items, including several pairs of Omnioculars. Resembling a pair of brass binoculars, Omnioculars also have an array of dials, knobs and switches to control various features. They have an amazingly high zoom, with a focal length factor up to 500x, letting viewers practically count the freckles on players across the length of a Quidditch field. There are also controls to play back what has been viewed through them, and because of the potential duration of a Quidditch match, the playback can be as long as six hours for the sets I found in Diagon Alley, which were state-of-the-art models designed for the 1990 Quidditch World Cup. It was also possible to speed up or slow down the playback, from about one one-hundredth to 100 times normal speed. I would be able to make use of most of these capabilities.

I'd purchased a dozen pairs, to be on the safe side. At eight Galleons a pair, it didn't even come to a hundred Galleons total. After removing the wards preventing magical tampering placed on them by the manufacturer, Omni Products, Ltd., I performed a variety of magical detection and revealment spells on one pair, to determine the best method for using them. One feature I wanted, activating the record function via motion detection, wasn't available, but it wasn't difficult to come up with a spell to handle it. After that, I put a Disillusionment Charm on each one, along with a Levitation Charm, so I could position them in the sky above Mrs. Figg's house without arousing suspicion. The Omnioculars would not be detectible by Foe Glasses or Sneakoscopes, since there was no one actually close by or watching the Figg residence, nor would _Homenum Revelio_ work on them. The only way they might be detected was if someone ran into one while flying a broom toward Mrs. Figg's house, and that was a pretty unlikely occurrence! After modifying the Omnioculars, I sent out two pair at a time to hover around her home; any motion would start them recording, and they were enchanted to follow whatever motion occurred, into or out of the house. Once an Omniocular had recorded as much as it could, it would automatically return to my home, a few blocks away. It usually took several days to fill up the six hours on an Omnioculars, and when one returned, I set up a View-O-Quill, a magical quill that transcribed whatever action occurred in front of it, to write down everything it had recorded. The quills could transcribe a playback running at about three times normal speed, so I could "dump" the information in the Omnioculars in about two hours.

I also had an ingenious magical solution for saving anything I considered useful, for later viewing. At the end of each transcription, I would skim the text for anything unusual. Most of the comings and goings at Mrs. Figg's house were her or her cats — not very interesting. When something out of the ordinary did happen, though — a door would open and close by itself, or Mrs. Figg appeared to be talking to herself, I would cue up the Omnioculars to that point in the playback and watch what happened, then remove the memories of what I'd viewed and store them in a crystal vial labeled with the time, date and perceived activity, for later review in my Pensieve. So far, however, I had only saved three or four incidents where Mrs. Figg appeared to be talking to an invisible companion, or I'd viewed someone or something I couldn't see entering or leaving her home. I also had no idea who these invisible folks might be, or what they might be doing elsewhere, out of view of the Omnioculars. For now, however, I was just getting an idea of the amount of clandestine activity going on at her house between August and December. I figured things would really pick up next summer, after Harry was back from his first year at Hogwarts.

Ironically, the people giving me the least amount of trouble now were the Dursleys. With both Dudley and Harry away at their respective schools that fall, they had pretty much faded into the backdrop of my activities in Little Whinging. I had dropped off the monthly payment for September, one thousand pounds, the amount agreed upon for each month of Harry's eleventh year, but since Harry was off in Hogwarts, it was the last payment I expected to make until next June, when he returned to Privet Drive.

By the middle of December, with Christmas fast approaching, I found time to pick up some gifts for both Harry and Dudley, and I even got something nice for Vernon and Petunia as well; there was no reason to for me to exclude them, especially since I believed they were experiencing a bit of "empty nest" syndrome, with Dudley off to Smeltings for the fall term (and with no extra income coming in because of Harry). I wasn't sure how I was going to get Harry's gifts to him, though, since I wasn't supposed to contact him, but I decided the vow that I'd made with Dumbledore didn't include sending Christmas presents to him.

However, that point was rendered moot when I heard the _Daily Prophet_ post chime sound one Friday morning before Christmas week. Expecting an owl with my morning _Prophet_, instead I found Hedwig bearing a letter from Harry! I opened my back door, inviting her into the kitchen, and she accepted gratefully, coming in out of the cold and landing on the table, where I removed a letter from the pouch tied to her leg and offered her a piece toast I'd just made, which she took, hooting happily.

Unfolding the letter, I read.

_Dear Uncle Jimmy,_

_Sorry I haven't written you this fall, it's been a pretty busy first term. Ron and I both ended up in Gryffindor, and we share our dormitory with three other first years: Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan. They're all good guys, but you were right — no other students here I've met so far have anywhere near the training that you gave me._

_I'm sorry to ask on such short notice, but I'd like to come home for the Christmas holidays, to talk some things over with you. I'd rather not stay at the Dursleys, if that's okay with you. Originally I planned to stay at school, but I'm not sure if that's in everyone's bests interests._

_We'll be on the Hogwarts Express to King's Cross Monday morning — we go back two Sundays later. If you can't make room for us, I'll understand and we can make other arrangements. Thanks very much!_

_Sincerely,_

_Harry_

Hedwig was just finishing the piece of toast I'd given her. "If you'll wait a minute long," I asked her, "I can send my reply back to Harry with you." She flapped her wings once in agreement, and I summoned a piece of parchment and a pen from my den (pens wrote more quickly than quill and ink) and wrote a reply.

_Dear Harry,_

_I'd be pleased to have you here for the Christmas holidays, along with whomever you're bringing with you. You'll see me at King's Cross this coming Monday!_

_Sincerely,_

_Uncle Jimmy_

I folded the letter and slipped it into the pouch on Hedwig's leg, then pointed toward the back door, which opened. Hedwig turned her head toward me for a moment, then launched herself across the room and into the morning sky. Harry would get it well before Monday, and he and (probably) Ron would arrive in King's Cross Monday evening.

Well! I thought. It would be nice to see Harry once again, and how his first term at Hogwarts had changed him, if any. I was also interested in whatever it was he wanted to talk about; obviously, it was something he didn't trust to owl post. I prepared suitable transportation arrangements for us, and as the Hogwarts Express pulled up to Platform 9¾ I was standing there waiting for Harry. The train doors opened and an assortment of heavily wrapped and cloaked students spilled out onto the platform, making their way to the barrier between the magical and Muggle worlds.

Harry was one of the last students off, and as I expected, he wasn't alone. What I wasn't expecting, however, was the number of people he'd brought with him. As well as Ron Weasley, tall and gangly, with a heavy coat protecting him from the cold, was a bushy brown-haired girl, wearing a lined jacket, scarf, and earmuffs.

"Harry," I called, holding out my hand as we approached one another. He took my hand and we shook. He was smiling and looked at ease.

"Hello, sir," he said, with a respectful nod. "I believe you know Ron Weasley, of course," he said, indicating the tall redhead.

"We did meet once," I said, as Ron and I shook hands. He smiled at me, a bit nervously, and looked from Harry to Hermione.

"And this," Harry said, "is Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is Mr. James Monroe."

"How do you do, sir?" she said, shaking my hand very formally.

"Harry calls me 'Uncle Jimmy,'" I said, as we shook. "You can feel free to call me that as well." At her shocked expression I added, "or not, as you prefer."

"Hermione is in Ravenclaw," Harry commented, a smile quirking his lips. "So she's used to doing things very correctly."

"There's nothing wrong with being correct, Harry," she said, a bit tartly, and Ron rolled his eyes. "I saw that, Ronald," she said, without turning toward him.

"Ravenclaw, eh?" I said, in a tone of surprise. "Really?"

Hermione looked at me, unabashed. "Are you surprised they invited me here, Mr. Monroe, sir? Which House were you in, if I may ask?"

"None," I replied. "I didn't attend Hogwarts."

"Oh? Where did you go, then?"

"…I suppose you could say I'm self-taught," I said at last, deciding that was as close to the truth I could get without revealing what I actually was.

Hermione looked very interested upon hearing this. "Really? I didn't think it was possible to be self-educated in magic at the levels Harry says you've achieved. He says you have a library. The library at Hogwarts is quite extensive but I don't think one could literally learn magic from the ground up. Do you have any books on alchemy? Harry thought you might, and we have been looking for information on someone for quite some time. Nicholas Flamel. Do you know him? We tried to get Hagrid to tell us —"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted her. "Can we get out of the cold before our ears fall off, either from the cold, or you talk them off?"

Hermione frowned at him. "Oh, honestly, Harry! I don't go on as much as you like to pretend I do! I just thought I'd fill Mr. Monroe in on what we've trying to do these last few weeks, so he'll know what we're talking about…"

While she was talking, I pulled an old book out of my pocket. It was actually a Portkey, one that would activate when certain words or phrases were spoken by the person holding it. In this case I had set up a two-word phrase. "Are we ready to go?" I said, into a momentary pause in the conversation, as Hermione took a breath. I held the book out between the four of us.

"More than ready!" Ron said eagerly, reaching out and touching the book. He, at least, immediately understood what I was planning.

"What's this?" Hermione asked, distracted by the sudden appearance of a book before her. "Why are you touching it?" she asked Ron.

"It's a Portkey," Harry said, putting his fingertips on the book as well. "Probably to take us back to Uncle Jimmy's house. Right, sir?" I nodded.

"Aren't Portkeys supposed to be regulated by the Ministry of Magic?" Hermione asked, shrewdly. She looked at me. "Do you have a permit for this?" she asked. "Won't we get in trouble if we use a Portkey without permission?"

"Only if you tell them," I said, dryly. Both Harry and Ron laughed. Hermione gave me a reproachful look, then shrugged and put her hand on the book.

"Now, say the secret word," I said, grinning vapidly and holding an imaginary cigar to my mouth. "And win a free Christmas holiday in Little Whinging! I'd like each of you name an exception to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. Hermione, will you go first, please?"

Hermione was looking at Ron and Harry doubtfully. "That's a pretty advanced question, Mr. Monroe. Are you sure these two will be able to —"

"Food," Ron said immediately, grinning at her.

"Love," Harry added at once, right after him. "Your turn, Hermione."

She looked at both of them for a moment, incredulous, then sighed. "You two have been hiding things from me," she said, her eyes narrowing. "But, all right, then: Money, or monetary value."

"Right, right, and right," I said. "And I'll supply a fourth exception: true life." When I spoke these words the book flashed blue, and we were all pulled forward, as if by a hook behind our navels and into a swirling maelstrom of wind and colors, to land moments later in the living room of my home.

Harry had landed correctly, and was steadying Hermione as she started to topple forward. There was a crunching sound as Ron fell over onto a carved wooden chair, breaking it into pieces. He looked at it, surveying the damage, then cursed and looked up at us. His eyes went large as he realized what he'd just said. "Sorry," he muttered, getting up off the floor as Harry helped him up. Hermione was looking at him disapprovingly.

"Not to worry," I said, taking out my wand to wave it over the chair, saying "_Reparo_." The chair instantly reformed itself, and I gestured for them to sit down. "Why don't you all take off your coats and get comfortable," I said — all three of them were carrying rucksacks, probably with clothes and other things for their stay. "I'll get us all something to drink. What would you like? I can get anything you want."

"Soda," Harry said at once.

"Tea, please," Hermione said, after a polite pause.

"Pumpkin juice," Ron finally decided.

"Be right back," I said, going into the kitchen to fix their drinks. I probably could have done it from the living room, but decided I would give them a couple of minutes alone with each other, to get adjusted to the new environment.

There were a few things I would have to get used to as well. Hermione was in Ravenclaw! That was an interesting development; I knew she'd considered both Gryffindor or Ravenclaw Houses, having mentioned both of them on the Hogwarts Express in the first canon book, but she usually ended in Gryffindor. It was also interesting that she had joined Harry and Ron on this trip, since it was unusual for students in different houses to associate with each other much outside of school. That usually took place after they left Hogwarts.

I summoned three glasses from a cupboard, then a couple of cans of soda and ice from the icebox (which literally _was_ an icebox, since I didn't try to run an electrical refrigerator in the kitchen, where so much magic took place, and where it was much simpler to generate heat and cold magically), along with a cold pitcher of pumpkin juice, to pour into one of the glasses. For Hermione, I summoned a tea service and had the water boiling in the kettle in a few seconds, then poured some off in the teapot to seep. I summoned a creamer and walked back into the living room, where Harry and Ron were explaining to Hermione how they knew the answers to my question about Gamp's Law so readily.

"I've told you about Bill and Charlie," Ron was saying. "Bill got 12 O.W.L.s and was Head Boy his seventh year. I heard him an' Charlie talking about all sorts of stuff like that."

"Convenient that you remembered that _one_ bit of information when you did," Hermione said, skeptically, but her attention was diverted as I re-entered the room. "Oh, thank you very much!" she said, as I handed her the cup of tea, then passed Harry and Ron their glasses, and settled into my favorite chair with a cold soda.

"How did your first term go, Harry?" I asked.

"It's been very interesting," Harry said. "I've met a lot of new people. We have some interesting teachers." Ron rolled his eyes as he took a drink from his pumpkin juice. "Did you know one of the teachers is a ghost? Professor Binns. Most boring person, living or dead, I've ever met." Ron laughed.

"Harry, you're just not giving History of Magic a fair chance," Hermione complained.

"Oh, I like History of Magic," Harry retorted. "I just don't like Professor Binns trying to bore me to death while he's teaching it."

"What about Snape?" Ron reminded him. "You an' he have been best mates ever since our first class with him."

"Ha-ha," Harry said, in a heavily sardonic tone. He gave me a look that suggested Snape would be the subject of a future conversation between us. I was starting to wish Harry had written me during the fall with updates on what was happening at the school. "That man is a disgrace to teachers everywhere," Harry said, grimly.

"Just because you don't like his style," Hermione said reproachfully, "doesn't mean you have to insult him." Was Hermione _defending_ Snape?

"And just because you kiss his feet," Ron sniped, "doesn't make him a great teacher, either!" _Brother, this was getting complicated_! I thought.

"I don't kiss his feet!" Hermione objected. "He happens to be very intelligent! Anyway, Ronald, he doesn't treat us Ravenclaws any better than he does you Gryffindors. It's the Slytherins he's always giving special treatment to."

"Well, what d'you expect?" Ron asked, exasperated. "He's Head of Slytherin House, isn't he? He's always giving them points they don't deserve."

"Uncle Jimmy," Harry spoke up suddenly. "Do you think we could get something to eat? We haven't had anything since breakfast this morning."

We went to a small Muggle restaurant a few miles away, located on the road between Little Whinging and West London. The waitress was pleasant enough, though a bit distracted and aloof, as if a group of people coming just at last call was the last thing she wanted. I ordered fish and chips, as did Harry, while Ron ordered steak and kidney pie and Hermione asked for a salad. I glanced around, seeing several other customers in the shop as well, but everyone else was finishing up, smoking or talking rather than eating.

"Feels a bit weird, not eating in the Great Hall, you know?" Ron said after the food had arrived. He was looking at his meal, rather smaller than he was probably used to having. "If we were there, we could have three or four different dishes at one time, if we wanted."

"That's not a good reason to eat yourself stupid, Ronald," Hermione said, picking slowly at her salad. "Just because you could have all the food you could stuff yourself with doesn't mean you _should_."

"I don't do that," Ron said, indignant. Harry chuckled and Hermione smiled with him. "What?" Ron demanded, seeing their expressions.

"Ron," Harry replied, still smiling. "You eat a _lot_ of food."

"I never said I didn't!" Ron looked a bit outraged. "We all do in my family! Well, not Percy — he eats like a bird — but Charlie always packed it away. Fred and George, too. Mum's always worried she hasn't made enough whenever we all sit down to eat." Ironically, Ron had managed to finish off the steak and kidney pie as he was telling us this. "I'm still hungry," he said, looking a bit sheepish.

"If you want to get something else to eat," I told him, "that's okay."

Ron tried to demur, but Harry cut him off. "You should eat if you're still hungry," he said, just starting his second piece of fish. "I don't want to have to hear about you being hungry all night tomorrow morning."

I waved at the waitress and she came over and took Ron's order for a cheeseburger and fries, then left the table shaking her head a bit. Ron didn't say much for a while; he was sulking for being teased about his appetite. Harry, Hermione and I finished our meals just as Ron's cheeseburger arrived, and we watched him eat it in silence. The waitress dropped off the ticket right as Ron was finishing, glancing toward the door as she did. I took her subtle hint and suggested we leave.

By the time we'd gotten to the car and were back on the road to Little Whinging, Ron had gotten over his sulk and was looking around my vehicle, a 1990 BMW 525i. "My dad has a car," he said. "Not as nice as this one, though."

"What kind of car is it?" I asked.

"Uhhh — well, I dunno," Ron admitted. "Dad's got it all apart in our shed. He says he's just trying to figure out how it works, but Fred says he just tells Mum that so she won't make him get rid of it, since wizards aren't supposed to bewitch Muggle objects and use them. Fred reckons Dad's going to make it into a flying car. So —" Ron looked around inside the BMW. "Can this car do anything magic?"

"Ronald," Hermione said in an exasperated tone. "You just _told_ us it was illegal — do you expect Mr. Monroe to admit he has an illegally bewitched car?"

"Actually, it _is_ enchanted," I said, and Hermione looked at me, dumbstruck. "There's a Flying Charm on it, as well as an Invisibility Booster."

"How fast can it fly?" Harry asked, and Hermione's hair whipped around as she turned to stare at him in turn.

"It should go about 250 MPH," I told them. "I've also magically reinforced the windscreen and the front of the car to withstand the increased pressure of that speed."

Harry and Ron were listening eagerly, but Hermione shook her head resignedly. "I guess it's true what my dad says," she muttered, "that the only difference between men and boys is the size of their toys."

I parked in the garage and we walked into the house through the front door. "You'll probably want to get some rest," I said as we took off our coats, placing them in the coat cupboard. "You've all been on the go all day."

"Oh!" Hermione said, sounding disappointed. "I did want to see your library."

"I think tomorrow would be better," I said. "After you've had some rest." Hermione nodded, a little reluctantly.

"I've got two extra bedrooms upstairs," I said. "I was originally going to let Harry and Ron have their own rooms, but with the three of you here, I think Hermione can take one room and Ron and Harry can share the other." They all found this agreeable, and we went upstairs to the rooms. At the top of the stairs was a hallway that branched in two directions, leading to all the first floor rooms. I pointed to the nearest door. "That's my room," I said. "It has an adjoining bathroom, so the one right here —" I pointed to another nearby door "— is the one you all will use." We walked down a hallway with two doors, one on each side. I opened the first one. "This one can be Hermione's room," I said, and she walked inside, looking around. The room was not huge, but was spacious enough for her to be impressed. I had used an Extension Charm on it (as with all the rooms in the house) to give it just enough extra space to be comfortable, without being obvious that magic was involved. A precise measurement would reveal that the interior was larger than the dimensions of the house would allow, but nothing else was obvious.

There was a bed, wardrobe, dressing rack and a sitting chair in the room. "Very nice," Hermione said, smiling at me. "Thank you, Mr. Monroe."

I pointed Harry and Ron to the opposite door. "We'll put you two in here," I said, opening the door. This room was furnished similarly to the first one. "Let's solve the bed problem first, shall we?" I said, drawing my wand and pointing it at the sitting chair, which promptly turned into another bed identical to the first one. I waved my wand again, this time at the wardrobe, and an identical one appeared beside it. "That should get you two set," I told them.

"Does anyone want something before we turn in for the night?" I asked. "Some hot chocolate to settle you down, perhaps?" Harry and Ron both nodded.

"Yes, thank you," Hermione's voice came from the other room.

"Very good," I said. "Get ready for bed, all of you, and I'll have some fixed in a few minutes. Come down to the kitchen when you've finished changing."

In the kitchen, I summoned milk and syrup from the icebox, combining the proper amounts in a pot and warming it on the stove. I enchanted a spoon to stir the mixture gently.

Hermione came downstairs wearing a housecoat and slippers. She sat down at the kitchen table about the time the chocolate began to steam. I pointed at the cupboard. Three mugs floated out and landed on the table, and I sent the pot of chocolate over to the table, to pour a mug for Hermione.

"Don't you need a wand to do that?" she asked, curious.

"Not for simple things like levitating pots and mugs," I said. "It's not difficult if you've had practice."

"Oh. Has Harry had much practice at it?" she asked, casually.

"I gave him a book on wandless magic a few years ago," I said, pouring milk in the other two mugs for Harry and Ron. "He's probably fairly decent at it by now."

Harry and Ron came into the room, both dressed in pajamas, robes and slippers, and sat down at the table opposite of Hermione. Both took sips of their hot chocolate and sighed contentedly.

Hermione was smiling at Harry. "All right, Hermione?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm fine," she said, giving him a satisfied look. Harry stared at her, trying to figure out why she was so happy. I didn't say anything — I figured I'd already let more slip than I should have.

In a few minutes the mugs of chocolate were gone and Hermione stifled a yawn. "Well, I think I'll go up to bed," she said. "Thank you for the hot chocolate, Mr. Monroe."

"You're welcome, Hermione," I replied.

"Yeah," Ron said. "Thanks! That hit the spot." He yawned as well.

"Good," I said briskly. "Well, off you go to bed, then."

The three of them stood, and Ron and Hermione headed for the stairs. Harry didn't move, however, and Ron stopped at the door of the kitchen. "Coming, Harry?" he asked.

"In a minute," Harry said. Ron nodded and went upstairs.

Harry stood silently, looking at me for several moments. "Why didn't you come to get me on September first?" he finally asked, coolly.

"Dumbledore and I made a deal," I explained. "He wanted me not to make initial contact with you for at least a year. We made an Unbreakable Vow."

"Why would you _do_ that?" Harry wanted to know. "Why give him that advantage?"

"We exchanged Vows," I said. "He vowed not to speak falsely about me to you, if I agreed to his."

"Did you think I'd believe anything he might tell me about you?" Harry said, his eyebrows raised.

"Dumbledore can be pretty persuasive, when he wants to be," I told him. "Besides, now that you know, you can contact me anytime."

Harry shrugged.

"We can talk more tomorrow," I said. "There are some things you wanted to discuss."

Harry nodded, then said, "Ron knows about my advanced training, but I haven't told Hermione about it. I've thought about it, though."

"She probably has some ideas," I said, thinking back to earlier. "She asked if you knew wandless magic and I told her I gave you a book on it."

"Well, she might've seen me do a few things in the past few months without my wand," Harry shrugged. "But she doesn't know how much I know about spells. I know Ron won't tell her — they don't like each other very much. I'm the only thing they have in common."

"You'd better get to bed," I said again. "We can talk more tomorrow."

Harry nodded and padded upstairs. I made sure the doors were locked and all the lights extinguished downstairs, then went up and got ready for bed myself. I expected tomorrow would be a very busy, and interesting, day indeed.

***

Anticipating how hungry the three would be in the morning, I was up by seven a.m. to prepare breakfast. It was Christmas Eve, and I expected that after breakfast we would go out Christmas shopping for a bit. I planned to pick up presents for Ron and Hermione, so they wouldn't feel left out Christmas morning.

Hermione padded into the kitchen in her robe and slippers, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Good morning," I said, as she sat at the table. "Are you hungry?"

"A little," she said.

"What would you like?"

"Some toast, please." I waved a half-dozen slices of bread onto a tray and placed it in the oven, then gestured at the ice box and a butter tray floated over and onto the table in front of her.

"Anything else?" I asked. "Some eggs, or porridge, maybe?"

"Well," she said, a bit shyly, "I usually read the _Daily Prophet_ in the morning. Harry said you get it. Is it here yet?"

I glanced at my watch. "It usually gets here between now and 8 a.m.," I said. Just then there was a jingling from the post perch outside. "That was a coincidence!" I laughed. "It just arrived." I opened the back door and got the paper, saying "Good morning," to the post owl, which was having some owl treats before returning. It hooted tiredly at me; it was probably ready to head for its home and sleep.

As I came back inside, Harry and Ron were coming into the kitchen as well. "Good morning, you two," I said. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah," Ron said. "That bed was about as comfortable as the one I have at home. What's for breakfast?"

"Whatever you'd like," I replied.

Ron thought for a moment. "How about scrambled eggs and sausage?"

I looked at Harry. "Sounds good," he nodded.

"And toast?" Ron added.

"Toast is in the oven," I said. "It'll be right up." I checked the oven, and the toast was lightly browned. I gestured and all the pieces flipped over to the other side. I set to work on the eggs and sausage, which is to say, I summoned a carton of eggs, some milk and a package of sausage links out of the ice box. I tossed the entire package of links into a skillet after spraying it with cooking spray, then broke a half-dozen eggs into a mixing bowl, along with some milk, and set a spoon to mixing them. I sat down at the table with the three of them.

"I thought we'd go out shopping after breakfast," I said. "I have a few last-minute things to get for tomorrow."

"I do, too," Hermione said, looking out from behind the paper. "That's a wonderful idea, Mr. Monroe."

"Yeah, that sounds like fun," Ron said, his tone indicating the exact opposite.

"If you'd wanted to stay cooped up over the holidays," Hermione reminded him coolly, "you could have just stayed at school."

"Oh yeah, all by myself," Ron replied, grumpily. "That would've been loads of fun, too — waking up and opening my presents with no one around."

"Oh, poor you," Hermione sniffed, her tone filled with sarcasm, and went back to reading the paper. I glanced at Harry, and he made a slightly shrugging motion. _It's the way they are_, his eyes seemed to say.

After breakfast, everyone got ready to go out and I drove us over to the mall a few miles away. This was the mall where Dudley and his gang had been hanging out, nicking stuff from stores, ever since I gave him the Shadow Gloves and the X-Ray Spectacles. I didn't expect him to be here today, though; he was probably curled up in front of this television set, watching the Great Humberto Christmas Special.

"We'll meet here for lunch," I said, indicating a food shop near the entrance to the mall. "Say, about 12:30." As Hermione and Ron looked around, deciding where to go first, I pulled Harry aside and slipped him several twenty-pound notes.

"I have money," Harry said softly, starting to refuse them.

"Ron might not," I reminded him. "Plus it never hurts to have a bit extra, in case you or Hermione need more." Harry nodded and took the notes, then he, Ron and Hermione headed into the mall.

As soon as they had disappeared from view, I smiled and, turning on my heel, I disappeared as well, Apparating to the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron, where I tapped three times on the third up, second across brick in the wall above the dustbins, revealing the archway to Diagon Alley. I wasn't going to do any of _my_ shopping in a Muggle mall! I'd decided to come here alone to keep any reports of me being seen with Harry or his schoolmates from getting back to Dumbledore.

I already had gifts for Harry and something for Dudley; the appearance of Ron and Hermione over the Christmas holidays was a welcome addition, and one I wanted them to remember fondly later in their lives. I wondered, as I wandered past the shops in Diagon Alley, what Harry and Ginny, or Ron and Hermione, might say to their own children about these days, and about me. I was being a bit premature, of course; things needn't turn out how they did in the canon story — in fact, with Hermione in Ravenclaw instead of Gryffindor, they were bound not to.

It was just before twelve when I finally finished shopping and headed toward the exit. I would have ample time to get to my car, secure the presents I'd bought under a Disillusionment spell and whip up a few boxes to carry around when I met Harry and his friends, to allay any suspicions they might have.

As I neared the Diagon Alley Welcoming Office, however, a hooded figure stepped out of it, a hand held up to stop me from going any further.

"What's wrong?" I said, stopping, but as the figure stepped closer I saw it was Harry under the hood. "Harry, what the —?"

"Shhh," he said, "Hermione and Ron are inside the Welcoming Office — we came here to pick up some presents, the Muggle shops didn't have what we wanted." He pointed to Eeylops Owl Emporium. "Duck in here, quick!" I stepped into the owl shop and faded back into the dark — the store was kept dim to simulate evening, so the owls would act more alert for shoppers in the daytime.

A few moments later, Hermione and Ron strolled by, arguing about where they should go first. Harry was following them, his hood now pushed back. "I forgot to get a shop directory," I heard him say. "I'll be right back." He walked into Eeylops a moment later. "Sorry," he said, when he saw me. "I thought you wouldn't want them to know you were here, too."

"I suppose I could have saved us all the trouble of sneaking about, if I'd just asked where you wanted to go," I said, wryly. I glanced at my watch. "But it's only about 30 minutes before we're supposed to meet in front of the restaurant."

"Well, you know how kids are," Harry smirked, with a shrug of his shoulders. "We'll just tell you we lost track of the time. Either that, or Hermione will hurry us along into getting back on time."

"Take your time," I said, walking out the front of the door and looking down the Alley. I could just barely see the top of Ron's red hair. "You'd better get back to those two, before they strangle each other."

Harry gave a rueful laugh. "Well, they get that way, sometimes. But they do like each other, I think, even if they don't show it much. See you later," and he started off toward them, but I caught his arm. He looked back at me, eyebrows raised, and I held out my other hand.

"_Accio_ shop directory," I said, and a pamphlet flew out of the Welcoming Office and into my hand. I handed it to Harry.

"Thanks," he said, and hurried off to join Hermione and Ron. I turned and walked out through the archway, then Apparated back to the mall. I put the presents into the trunk of my car and obscured them with a Disillusionment Charm, wondering as I did how the three had gotten to Diagon Alley in the first place; I hadn't thought to ask Harry when I had the opportunity.

I sat outside the restaurant, amusing myself by causing animal noises like a dog barking or cat meowing around people, and watching them look around to see where it came from. Some people spent quite some time trying to find the source of the noise, too. One boy even walked over to where I was seated and asked if I'd seen a dog.

It was after one p.m. when Harry, Ron and Hermione finally showed up, carrying shopping bags full of stuff. "Sorry," Harry said, as they walked up. "We lost track of time…"

"You're probably hungry by now," I said, pretending to be annoyed. "Is this place okay or would you rather have something else?" They agreed it was fine and we walked in and got some hamburgers and fries. I watched Ron eat two large hamburgers (with cheese), a large order of fries, and a soft drink, then pick at Harry's fries as he finished his one hamburger. Hermione must have been hungry, since she ordered a chicken sandwich and ate it without complaint. After the meal, we headed for home, storing the presents in my den for the time being (I left my own presents in the trunk, to be removed later).

The time had finally come to show Ron and Hermione the library in my wine cellar, and I led them down the stairs to it, having them stand at the foot of the stairs as I turned on the lights (all gas, by the way, with igniters in each outlet that sparked at the flip of a switch near the door).

"Whoa!" Ron said, as light suddenly flooded the room, revealing row after row of cases filled with books of all sizes and shapes. "This is like the library at Hogwarts!"

"It's not nearly as big," Hermione said, looking around, but she was quite clearly impressed. "But, considering this is in the basement of someone's home…"

"There are," I said, "Thirteen thousand, eight hundred and forty-two books in the library, as of today." I smiled as Hermione's eyes widened in awe — I knew that, just as the exact number of books here wouldn't have impressed Harry as much when I first showed them to him, that it _would_ impress Hermione.

"Whoa!" Ron said again. "That's more books than I _ever_ plan to read!"

"No surprises there," Hermione said dryly, rolling her eyes. Ron stared balefully at her.

"What's this?" Harry was pointing to the section I had recently installed, where I kept my Pensieve and crystal vials of preserved thoughts. "I don't remember this part being here before."

"It's new," I said. "I'll show you." I went over to the cabinet where the Pensieve was stored, unlocked it and drew out the large stone basin, swirling with silvery liquid, and set it on the table in the middle of the area. "This is a Pensieve," I said.

"I've heard of these," Hermione said, examining it closely. "Some wizards use them to store their thoughts when their heads get too cluttered up with what they know."

"So, your head can get _too_ full of knowledge," Ron, surprised, said to Harry. "I'll have to remember to tell Mum that!"

"I don't think you'll ever have to worry about having _too much_ information in your head, Ronald," Hermione said snippily. He sneered at her in return.

"How's it work?" Harry asked, looking at it intently. "What are these runes for?" He pointed to the runes carved into the stone around the edge of the basin.

"The runes spell out my name," I said. "James Harrison Monroe. It identifies me as the owner of the Pensieve, although anyone can use it. To use it, we would add the memories we wanted to observe to the liquid, then touch our faces to the surface. The Pensieve would then show us the memories, in complete detail. The Pensieve is useful for going over thoughts and memories, reviewing them for anything you might have missed when you originally experienced it."

"Sounds wicked," Ron observed. "You mean you could see the lessons a teacher gave, in case you missed something they said?"

"Yes," I said. "Some wizards use Pensieves as a teaching tool, presenting their lectures, then bottling them for others to be viewed as many times as needed."

"So," Harry said, considering what I'd said, "if I wanted to show you all the things that happened this fall at school, you could see exactly what happened?"

"Yes," I agreed. "Although it would be better if you just included the highlights — otherwise it could take quite a while to watch everything you've done in the past four months."

"I'd like to do that," Harry said, looking at Ron, who was giving him a very concerned look.

"Harry, are you sure that's a good idea?" Ron asked. Clearly he didn't think so. He glanced toward Hermione, and I realized why he was worried: if she saw everything Harry had done this fall, she might realize how much he really knew.

"Yes, I think so," Harry said, looking at Hermione as well. She was staring at them with a puzzled expression on her face.

"It's not like I've forgotten everything you've done this fall, Harry," she said, with an edge in her voice. "I'm not _that_ dim, you know."

"I know," Harry said, pulling out his wand. "But there's a few things I haven't told you about." He put the wand to his forehead and, after several moments of concentration, said, "_Pensextraxi!_" He moved his wand away from his forehead, and a silvery tendril came away with it, attached to the tip. Harry held the thought over the bowl then let it drop. Ron and Hermione both watched as it disappeared into the swirling, silvery liquid.

"Now what?" Ron asked.

"Now we can watch," I said. "Gather around the table," I told them, "one person per side. On three, we'll all lean forward over the bowl, until our faces touch the liquid. Don't worry about breathing it — it won't suffocate you."

We each took up position along one side of the bowl. "On one — two — three — _now_," I said, and we all leaned forward. There was a sharp lurch as my feet seemed to leave the floor of the library, and I felt myself falling through a cold, inky blackness. It was something I was quite used to, as I had been using the Pensieve for months now. I hoped it wouldn't be too unnerving for Harry and the others.

Suddenly I found myself standing with them again, along with the first-year class of Hogwarts, before the entire school in the Great Hall. I looked around, seeing Harry, Ron and Hermione, who all nodded at me, unlike the three who were in the group of first-years. This was Harry's memory of their Sorting, then.

"Granger, Hermione!" McGonagall called out, and Hermione from the group ran forward eagerly, perched herself on the stool, and placed the hat on her head. The hat was silent for several moments, then suddenly shouted out, "RAVENCLAW!" She smiled and ran over to the Ravenclaw table, all of whom were applauding her joining them. The Ron in the group of first-years breathed a sigh of relief.

"What was _that_ for?" the Harry next to him asked, in a whisper.

"She talks too much," Ron whispered back. "And she's too bossy."

"So much for inviting Ron to my fan club," the Hermione next to us said, dryly.

"Well, you never get a second chance to make a first impression," Ron observed. Hermione rolled her eyes.

Neville made it into Gryffindor, and Malfoy Sorted into Slytherin, joining his buddies Crabbe and Goyle at their table. Then it was Harry's turn. Harry stepped up, sat on the stool, and dropped the Hat onto his head. He sat there for some time before it finally roared, "GRYFFINDOR!" and he went to sit with Fred, George and Percy Weasley, along with Seamus Finnegan and Neville. A few minutes later they watched as Dean Thomas was Sorted into Gryffindor, followed shortly after by Ron.

The scene shifted forward in the feast, when everyone's dinner plates were now empty; Harry at the Gryffindor table was looking at the teachers seated along the High Table — particularly Professor Quirrell, whom he'd recognized from seeing in the Leaky Cauldron on his birthday. Quirrell turned to the teacher next to him, a man with long, greasy dark hair, a hooked nose, and sallow complexion. As Quirrell looked around, the man stared past him and directly into Harry's eyes. Harry clapped his hand to his forehead, saying "Ouch!" Percy Weasley, sitting across from him, asked, "What is it, Harry?"

"My —" Harry stopped as the Quirrell, following the man's gaze, looked back at Harry. The pained expression on Harry's face lessened. "N-nothing," he said to Percy.

"My scar had hurt when Snape looked at me," Harry said to me. "For a second, I thought he'd caused it, somehow. But when Quirrell looked toward me, the pain decreased, even though Snape continued to stare in my direction. If Quirrell moved, but Snape didn't, and the pain decreased, then it must've had something to do with Quirrell, not Snape."

"Nicely reasoned," Hermione commented.

The scene shifted again; this time, they were with Harry and Ron in a corridor, and both of the first-years were looking around in confusion.

"What floor are we on?" Ron asked, uncertain.

"_I_ don't know," Harry shrugged. "I thought the second, but that last staircase might've taken us up two floors rather than one."

Ron was looking around, then spied a door. "I think that'll take us to a staircase back down a floor." They went over to try it, but it was locked.

"What now?" Harry asked Ron, who shrugged.

"_What are you two up to_?!" Both of them jumped as the caretaker, Argus Filch, suddenly appeared around a corner, barking at them.

"Excuse me, sir," Harry said, his voice timid. "We're lost and —"

"Lost, my eye," Filch croaked. He pointed a gnarled finger toward the door. "You know where that door leads to, boy?"

"Our next class?" Ron said, hopefully.

"Wrong," Filch snorted. "You know very well where it leads — to the corridor Professor Dumbledore warned you about, the one you're _not_ supposed to go into!" Filch's jowls were quivering with rage. "Admit it! You're trying to sneak into that corridor, to see what's there!"

"No, sir," Harry averred. "We're just lost, really."

"Codswallop! You think I don't see things, boy," the caretaker growled, pointing a finger toward his rheumy eyes then jabbing it into Harry's chest. "But I saw you and that great berk, Hagrid, talking to each other at the start-of-year feast. He's told you what behind there, hasn't he?!"

Harry and Ron both shook their heads vigorously. "He never did!" Harry said at once.

"W-what seems t-to be the problem, M-mr. Filch?" a voice behind them stuttered. Harry and Ron turned to see that Professor Quirrell had joined them.

"These boys were trying to get into the corridor, here," Filch growled, pointing to the door.

"Oh, s-surely not!" Quirrell declared, looking at them. "You weren't trying to d-do that, w-were you, b-boys?"

"No sir," Harry spoke up. "We thought we were on the second floor, we're trying to get to your class."

"Yeah," Ron added, sensing a chance to curry some favor, "everyone's looking forward to your classes, Professor Quirrell." Filch snorted derisively.

"Come along, b-boys," Quirrell said, ignoring Filch. "L-let's find our w-way to my c-classroom." He led them, a hand on each of their shoulders, along another corridor and down a staircase, then along a winding path, until the reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Harry, Ron, Hermione and I following them.

In the classroom, everyone was seated at their desks except for Harry and Ron. "T-thanks for b-being interested in my c-class," Quirrell said, looking at Harry. He turned to Ron, saying, "Now find yourselves s-some seats and we'll b-begin." As he looked away, Harry put his hand suddenly to his forehead again.

"That's beginning to look a bit suspicious," Hermione, standing next to me, said slowly.

"Tell me about it," Harry, on the other side of me, agreed. "What I couldn't figure out was _why_ my forehead should hurt whenever Quirrell looked away from me."

"I suppose I'd wonder just what was under his turban," Hermione said.

Ron gave Harry an _I-told-you-so_ look. Harry said, "Ron bet me you'd figure that out straightaway when we told you. Looks like he was right."

First-term Harry and Ron had found seats together in the classroom and were putting away their rucksacks. "Why'd Filch think Hagrid would tell you what was behind that door, Harry?" he whispered, as Quirrell began checking attendance.

"Dunno," Harry whispered back. "I just met Hagrid a month ago, when he brought me to Diagon Alley, to pick up my school supplies."

"Hagrid brought _you_ to Diagon Alley?" Ron said, surprised. "I didn't know he ever left the school!"

"He must," Harry said. "He was getting something for Professor Dumbledore that day, from Gringotts. It's funny," he mused. "We saw Dumbledore there that day as well. I wonder why he didn't just get it from Hagrid when we saw him — Hagrid had it on him when we met Dumbledore at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour."

"Harry," Ron said, looking at him in amazement. "Are you _kidding_ me? You had _ice cream_ with Professor Dumbledore in Diagon Alley?!"

"Yeah," Harry shrugged. "What's the big deal?"

"Fred and George have been in school two years, and I don't think they've mentioned seeing Dumbledore more'n two or three times outside of school feasts in all that time," Ron said.

"Hmm," Harry said. Quirrell called out his name just then, and Harry responded, "Here, sir!" The scene faded…

…Into the Potions classroom. Snape was staring disdainfully at Harry, who looked back coolly at him.

"Potter," Snape said suddenly, pointing toward him. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Every eye in the class had turned towards Harry, even Ron's. Harry glanced at him; Ron gave a shrug — clearly he had no idea. Harry looked back at the Potions master and shrugged. "Sounds rather boring, sir — I think it would put me to sleep."

Some students laughed, but quickly became silent as Snape glared around the room. "An interesting response," Snape said. "Let's try another question — where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"Sorry, sir," Harry shrugged. "Looks like I'm goating this quiz."

The class laughed again, but Snape cocked his head at Harry, his eyes narrowing. He pointed suddenly at Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, who were shaking with silent laughter. "Settle down, you three!" Malfoy stopped laughing and looked at Snape in shock, as if he couldn't believe he'd been reprimanded.

"Alright, Potter," Snape snarled, turning back to him. "One last question: what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry was silent for several seconds, then said, "They all sound the same to me, sir." The class, particularly the Slytherins, were loudly snickering now.

"Silence!" Snape's voice was like a whip cracking, and everyone fell silent. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Potter," Snape said to him in a low but menacing tone. "But I am not amused."

He turned to the rest of the class. "In case none of you dunderheads were paying attention, all of Potter's answers were correct, though they were insolently phrased to make it seem as if he was answering by mere luck. Asphodel and wormwood combine to make a powerful sleeping potion, the Draught of Living Death; a bezoar is a stone from the stomach of a goat, that will save you from most poisons; and monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant." He looked darkly at Harry. "Three points from Gryffindor, Potter, for your insolence."

"Three points off for answering _correctly_?" Dean Thomas said, outraged.

"For answering _insolently_," Snape corrected him. "One more word, Mr. Thomas, and it will be five points. Well," he said, addressing the class once again. "Why aren't you writing these answers down?"

"I remember hearing about that afterwards, at dinner in the Great Hall," Hermione said to Harry. The other Ravenclaws were trying to decide if you were baiting Snape, or it was just a remarkable coincidence." She smirked at him. "I was pretty sure you were baiting Snape. Still, if so, it was quite impressive that you knew those things, your first day of class." Harry just shrugged.

The scene shifted again, to Harry and Ron sitting in Hagrid's cabin, trying to eat rock cakes, and telling about their lessons, and their first meeting with Filch, and Snape. It was obvious Hagrid was no fan of Filch's, calling him "that old git," to Harry and Ron's delight.

Less delightful was Hagrid's attitude toward Snape's treatment of the Gryffindors, especially Neville, as well as his singling Harry out for questions about potions on his first day, then deducting points even after admitting that Harry had somehow answered them correctly!

"What yeh've gotta understand about Professor Snape is, sometimes he's a bit too smart fer his own good."

"Too smart for _anyone's_ good," Ron said, glumly.

"But what's he got against _me_?" Harry wanted to know. "He seems to really hate me!"

"Oh, rubbish," Hagrid said, shaking his black, shaggy mane of hair "Why should he hate yeh?" But Harry, staring into the giant's eyes, could see there was something Hagrid wasn't saying. Then Hagrid looked away, and Harry was certain he was hiding something.

"I'll — I'll get some more rock cakes," Hagrid murmured, getting up and going to the oven. While he was doing this, Harry spied a part of a newspaper under the tea cozy, and drew it out to look at it. It was a cutting from the _Daily Prophet_, and as Harry read he discovered that there had been a break-in at Gringotts Wizarding Bank on July 31st, the very day he was there! Reading further, he saw that

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.

"The same _day_?" Hermione said, looking at Harry. "Didn't Hagrid go with you to Diagon Alley on your birthday?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "That's who Dumbledore picked to take me there."

"And you said he was picking up something for Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yeah," Harry said again. "I remember it was from vault seven hundred and thirteen. But it was just a grubby little brown paper package. But watch—" he pointed back to the scene before us as Hagrid returned with more rock cakes.

First-year Harry pointed to the clipping, now next to his tea cup. "Hey, Hagrid, it looks like we just missed some excitement on my birthday! It says here the bank was robbed on July 31! That was the day we were there, on my birthday!"

Hagrid snatched the piece of newspaper off the table, more quickly than he meant to. "Er — yeh, I wondered where that clipping got off to — thanks fer findin' it, Harry!" Hagrid scanned it for a moment, then slipped in unobtrusively into one of his pockets.

"The story said that the vault that was search had been emptied earlier that day," first-year Harry went on, as we watched Hagrid grow increasingly tense. "You emptied vault 713, Hagrid — it had just that one little package in it —"

"You saw that?" Hagrid yelped. Both Ron and Harry started in surprise at Hagrid's reaction. "Listen, boys," he said, leaning close to them, his voice low and intense. "Yeh gotta promise me yer not gonna say anythin' about that package, yeh hear me?"

"We promise, Hagrid," Harry said, and Ron nodded as well.

"It's very important, see?" Hagrid went on, clearly upset. "Dumbledore made me promise not to say a word about it — it's just between him and Nicholas Flam —" he cut himself off suddenly.

"_Who_?" Ron said, wide-eyed. "Who's — Nicholas Flam?"

"Oh, bloody hell," Hagrid muttered, getting to his feet. "Well, boys," he said, suddenly brisk, "It's getting close t' dinner time, yeh don't want to be late." When Harry and Ron didn't move, he took each of them by the collar and, lifting them easily as dolls, led them on tiptoe to the door of the cabin, setting them outside on the steps, then shut the door behind them.

Ron looked at Harry, confused. "What was _that_ all about?"

"So that's how you found out about Nicholas Flamel?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "And you found out when Ron wondered aloud in front of you who 'Nicholas Flam' was and you told him he meant Nicholas Flamel."

"The name was familiar," Hermione said, "but I don't know what his connection to Professor Dumbledore is."

"What the hell are you all doing?" another voice said, sounding as if it was coming from far above us. I sighed, recognizing it. _What's he doing in here_, I thought to myself.

"Who said that?" Ron asked looking around to see who was talking. The first-term versions of Ron and Harry were trudging back to the castle for dinner.

"Time for us to leave," I sighed. "We have a visitor." I took Hermione and Harry's elbows, and we began to float upwards. Harry took Ron's arm, and he started floating up as well. The scene below them faded to black, and for a moment we were all enclosed in darkness, floating. Then our orientation seemed to flip around, as if we were doing a slow-motion backflip, and we all suddenly found ourselves leaning over the Pensieve, our faces inches from each other. Off to one side, the voice, now much closer, said, "That's a ruddy weird way to have lunch, isn't it?"

Harry looked around, to see who'd spoken to them. Standing in the entrance to the Pensieve Room was his cousin, Dudley.


	8. Christmas in Little Whinging

**Chapter 8 – Christmas in Little Whinging**

"Dudley," Harry said. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Dudley said. "Thought you were off in school."

The last I'd seen of Dudley had been in Diagon Alley back on Harry's birthday; he and Harry were going with Hagrid to buy Harry's books, while I stayed to talk to Albus Dumbledore. He'd have left Privet Drive for Smeltings about the same time Harry left for Hogwarts.

I stepped forward. "Dudley," I said, "these are friends of Harry's, from Hogwarts." I gestured toward Ron and Hermione. "This is Ron Weasley, and this is Hermione Granger."

"H'lo again," Ron said. "We've already met, right?"

"How do you do?" Hermione said, more formally.

"Uh, hi," Dudley said. He looked at me. "I, uh, knocked on your front door, but nobody answered, so I came around to the side entrance, and, um —" he held up one hand, which had a Shadow Glove on.

"I see," I said, one of my eyebrows arching. "Well, as a general rule, Dudley, sneaking into someone's house is not a very polite way of meeting new people." Dudley looked down, seemingly ashamed. Perhaps he really was, too; I didn't sense anything deceptive or equivocal in his attitude. "I trust it won't happen again," I added.

"No," Dudley said, shaking his head. "Sorry." Harry gave me a momentary look, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Dudley, saying he's _sorry_?

I turned to look at Ron. "When did you meet Dudley?" I asked him.

"On the Knight Bus, on our way to King's Cross," Ron answered.

"So what were you lot doing with that bowl over there?" Dudley asked, pointing to the Pensieve. "Is it magic?"

"You aren't a wizard, are you?" Hermione asked, looking at him closely. "Why do you have on a pair of magical gloves, then? Isn't that a violation of the Statutes of Secrecy?"

"Uhh —" Dudley stammered. "They're mine. Er — that is, they were a gift —"

"Don't worry, mate," Ron said, with sympathy. "We're afraid of her, too."

"Oh, ha-ha, Ronald Weasley," Hermione said, acerbically. "You're just afraid of what you can't understand."  
"There's a difference," Ron shot back, "between not understanding, and not _caring_."

"Not that you'd understand it," she sneered.

"Okay, peace," I said, trying to restore a measure of calm to the situation. "Dudley," I turned back to him. "Did you come over for any reason in particular?"

"Well…" Dudley hesitated. "I want to ask a favor."

"Oh?" I said, wondering what Dudley might need from me, on Christmas Eve, of all days? "What's the favor?"

"Could you…take me to that magic shopping place we were at, a few months ago?"

I looked at him, surprised. "Dudley, you're not allowed to buy anything magical. Muggles aren't supposed to have magical objects."

"_You've_ given me magical stuff!" Dudley said, almost accusingly. Hermione's eyes went wide, as if this statement had confirmed her suspicions.

"Wizards can _give_ Muggles magical objects, if there's a reason for them to have them," I pointed out. "But Muggles can't just walk into a wizard shop and buy stuff. For one thing, most of the shops in Diagon Alley are Unplottable, so you couldn't even _find_ them unless you were with a wizard. For another, most wizards know better than sell Muggles magical objects."

"But," Dudley mumbled, looking down at the floor, "I just wanted to buy something for Harry, for Christmas."

"Oh," I said, softening a bit. Well, there might be hope for Dudley after all! "Well," I said, rubbing my chin, thinking it over. "I suppose we can make a quick trip there and let you pick something out, if we hurry." Dudley grinned, elated.

"Can we go, too?" Ron asked, quickly.

"Yes, please?" Hermione added.

"Didn't —" I cut myself off; I wasn't supposed to know they'd been in Diagon Alley earlier that day, just as they didn't know I'd been. "Didn't you already do your shopping, earlier today?"

"Well, yeah," Ron said, shrugging. "But we could probably find a few more things there, I s'pose."

"Well, that's fine with me," I shrugged as well. "We'd better get going, then, before Diagon Alley closes for Christmas."

We all threw on coats and I enchanted a soda bottle into a Portkey to take us to the courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron. In case you've wondered why I don't have a fireplace hooked up to the Floo Network, it's because I wanted, as much as possible, to go unnoticed by the Ministry. Most of the magical protections on the house were in place to keep wizards (other than Harry and his friends) out of it — it would be pretty silly to do all that and then allow a Floo connection into my home!

A few moments later, we were standing in the courtyard outside Diagon Alley. I chucked the soda bottle into one of the bins, then tapped the brick to open the archway, and we strolled in.

"Do you have an idea what you want to get?" I asked Dudley, who looked at Harry, then gave me an irritated look.

"I don't want to say right in front of him," Dudley protested. "It won't be a surprise."

"The fact that you're getting me anything at _all_ is a surprise," Harry joked.

"Then maybe I should _really_ surprise you and not get anything," Dudley cracked back.

"Well, you don't have much time," I said, looking at my watch. "The sign at the Welcoming Center said Diagon Alley closes at 6 p.m. tonight."

"How about this," Dudley suggested. "Let me go with Harry's friends — they can help me find something for him."

I looked at Ron and Hermione. Hermione was beaming at the idea, but Ron seemed less than impressed. However, he shrugged and said, "Fine by me."

"Me, too!" Hermione said, brightly. "I have some ideas…"

"Uh, oh," Ron muttered _sotto voce_, at Harry. "We'll be closing the place down, I reckon…"

"I can _hear_ you, Ronald."

Hermione, Ron and Dudley walked off together, after I told them to be back at the Welcoming Center by 6:00 p.m., leaving me and Harry alone. That suited me fine; I expected he and I had some things to discuss. "Do you want to get something to drink?" I asked, and Harry nodded.

We found a small café nearby and ordered drinks — both of us got sodas, then found a small table outside and sat down.

"So are things going well at school?" I asked.

"Yeah," Harry said, with a shrug. "Maybe _too_ well. All the spells we're learning in first-year I've been through before, though some of the practicals have helpful."

I nodded. "The downside of being smart enough to get ahead in your education," I said, "is that you can get bored with your schoolwork unless you keep finding challenges for yourself."

"Tell me about it," Harry agreed. "I've been talking with Fred and George Weasley about some projects they've been working on — they've got some ideas for joke items they can't find at Zonko's — it's a joke shop in Hogsmeade," he elaborated.

I nodded. Of course I knew that Fred and George went on to create their own joke shop, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, by the beginning of Harry's sixth year in Hogwarts. "How's that been going?" I wondered.

Harry shrugged again. "Not much to say, really — they're pretty sharp blokes, they've just bounced a few ideas off me."

"That's good," I said, smiling as I took a sip of my drink. "I'm glad you're finding interesting things to do at school."

"Well, that's the thing, Uncle Jimmy," Harry leaned forward, giving me a penetrating look. "That's what I've been wanting to talk to you about."

"What's that?"

"I've gotten the impression, based on things I've heard both you and Professor Dumbledore say," Harry went on, measuring his words carefully. "That you both have something in mind for me to do, something that must be more important than creating joke items. Isn't that true?"

I was silent for several seconds. Then, "Yes, you're pretty much correct about that, Harry."

"So…" Harry paused expectantly, and when I didn't take his hint, he went on. "When were you or he planning to let me in on this plan of yours, then?"

I sighed. Dumbledore had dragged this point out for _years_ in the original story, keeping Harry in the dark until events forced him to give Harry the details of the Prophecy. In my original reality, as a reader of fiction, it was part of Rowling's plan not to reveal too much too early, to keep the idea fresh for the final novels in the series.

But _here_, in this reality, if I was going to help Harry prepare for his battle with Voldemort, I was going to have to give him the knowledge he would need, to help him defeat the Dark Lord.

I took out my wand, unobtrusively, and made several small gestures with it. "_Orbis imperturbus_!" I said, then slipped it back under my coat.

Harry was alert now, sitting straighter in his chair. "Must be pretty important," he noted, "if you're casting the Ring of Silence around us."

The Ring of Silence was a charm that could be used when you wanted to have a private conversation in an open area — such as this outside café.

"It is," I said, seriously. "This has to do with you — and Voldemort."

"I've been wondering if we'd discuss him," Harry said, not sounding surprised at all. "I'm almost certain that he's back, and I'm pretty sure he's done something to Professor Quirrell."

I was impressed. From what I'd seen so far in Harry's Pensieve memories, he'd had some suspicions about Quirrell, though I hadn't expected him to sort it all out by Christmas! Maybe I had underestimated Harry myself. "Why do you suspect Quirrell and not, say, Professor Snape?" I asked, to hear his reasoning.

"There's been reasons to suspect them both," Harry replied. "This is Professor Quirrell's first year at Hogwarts, while Snape has been teaching there since at least the fall of 1981. I think all those years Snape has spent near Professor Dumbledore have to tip the scales in his favor — I doubt he could fool the professor all this time."

"Stranger things have happened," I pointed out. "Any other reasons to suspect either of them?"

Harry was giving me a curious stare. "Do you know something about them I don't, Uncle Jimmy?"

"Well, before I answer either way," I hedged, "I want to hear your conclusions."

"Well, that stupid turbin Quirrell always wears," Harry said, giving a diffident shrug. "It's pretty suspicious right off the line. Plus, the couple of times I've stared at it from the back, my scar has hurt. Since Voldemort gave me this scar in the first place, I figure, if it hurts, it's got something to do with him."

"That sounds pretty reasonable," I commented.

"There's also the thing about Nicholas Flamel," Harry continued. "Which doesn't have anything to do with Voldemort directly, but I've been trying to calculate what might've happened to him if he cast a Killing Curse at me and it rebounded, for some reason, back onto him.

"I don't know if you can kill _yourself_ with a Killing Curse," Harry speculated, "but I can't see why it wouldn't work. The problem is, Voldemort survived, just like I did. I just don't know why either of us did."

"So why'd you mention Flamel?" I wanted to know.

"Well, he's known for being the only wizard to create an actual Philosopher's Stone. Ron and Hermione are still trying to figure that out — I'm keen to see which one of them gets it first," Harry smiled.

"Anyway, if Voldemort isn't dead, but weak or powerless because of the Killing Curse, it's possible the Elixir of Life, made with the Philosopher's Stone, could restore him," he concluded. "I think he's got Professor Quirrell looking for it."

"So why would Quirrell be at Hogwarts, then, instead of out looking for the Stone?" I pointed out.

"Well," Harry said, very matter-of-factly, "I think that the Stone _is_ at Hogwarts."

"Interesting," I said, noncommittally. "Why?"

"I think that's the package that Hagrid picked up from vault 713 at Gringotts when we visited there, on my birthday," Harry argued.

"Hmm," I mused. "Have you seen the Stone there, Harry? Did Hagrid ever tell you he went to get it, or that he'd given it to Dumbledore?"

"So, am I right?" Harry leaned forward eagerly. "D'you know it's there, then?"

"I'm not saying, yet," I put up a hand to forestall more questions. "I know you saw what was in that vault, when Hagrid emptied it. But all you saw was a grubby little package, to use your own description."

"Dudley interrupted us before we got to that part in the Pensieve," Harry said, "but Ron and I snuck out of the Hallowe'en feast a bit early, to have a look around in the corridor Filch accused us of trying to get into a few months earlier. You wouldn't _believe_ how many people had the same ruddy idea!"

"Really? Why do you say that?"

Harry shook his head disbelievingly. "That corridor was like King's Cross just before holiday. We were at the door leading to the corridor, and I was about to unlock it with _Alohomora_ when we heard someone coming, so we ducked around a corner. Well first, Snape shows up and goes through the door.

"Ron and I watched for another minute or two, waiting for him to come out, when Professor Quirrell shows up as well and goes inside. Well, Ron and I crept up to the door, to see what they were saying, but Snape and Quirrell were speaking too softly for us to hear."

Harry was getting more and more animated as his story continued. "All of a sudden we heard this _really loud_ barking and growling, then somebody yelled in pain. We heard footsteps on the other side, so Ron and I beat it back around a corner.

"But whoever came out the door must've saw us, because they shouted 'Stop!' so Ron and I ran like mad down some corridors, until we came to a shortcut Fred and George had showed us, once, and we slipped into that and got away. We followed the passageway down to the second floor."

Harry shook his head. "After that, things got a bit weird. Ron's brother Percy came by, leading a group of Gryffindors. We followed them, and Neville told us that Professor Quirrell had run into the Hallowe'en feast telling everyone a troll had gotten into the dungeons, then fainted, and Percy was leading us back to Gryffindor tower.

"Then, while we were walking, two girls were talking about a Ravenclaw girl had been in the girls' bathroom all afternoon crying because some of the other Ravenclaws were teasing her about some boy. Then they said it was that bossy brown-haired girl, Hermione!"

"Oh," I said, smiling. "So what'd you do?"

"Well, first I asked which bathroom it was," Harry said, "and Parvati said it was the one on the second floor. She also said it was me the Ravenclaw girls were teasing her about. Anyway, Ron and I turned around and headed for the second floor, to go tell her to get back to her dormitory.

"So when we got to the second floor, we smelled this awful stink, and discovered that the troll had made it past the teachers somehow, up to the second floor. I don't know how they could've missed it," Harry shook his head. "The damn thing was like twelve feet tall!"

"So what'd you do, jinx it?" I asked.

"Ron wanted to," Harry said, in an exasperated tone that reminded me of Hermione (which I didn't mention). "He knew about my advanced training by then. I told him, 'We can't hex a bloody troll, Ron — nobody will believe we did it!' But then it went through a door, and the key was in the lock, so we slammed it shut and locked it, and started to leave.

"Except…" Harry trailed off, looking sheepish. "Well, that door we locked was to the girls' bathroom. And Hermione was in it."

"Oh boy," I said.

"Yeah," Harry nodded, emphatically. "We heard a blood-curdling scream, and yanked open the door again, and there she was — trying to hide from this great stupid troll. We yelled at it, to get it to come after us, back through the door, but it just kept looking around and wouldn't move. She couldn't get around it.

"Finally it turned back toward her, and I thought it was going to grab her, so I jumped up on a sink then up on its back, and tried to choke it."

"You tried to choke a _troll_?" I said, both amused and aghast.

"Okay it was stupid," Harry said, in a rush. "But I didn't know what else to do! I didn't want to use advanced magic in front of Hermione!"

"Not even to save her life?" I asked, pointedly.

Harry shook his head in self-disgust. "Like I said, it was stupid — I wasn't thinking straight. I was scared as hell, but I had to do _something_!"

"So then what?" I prompted.

"Well, I reached around and punched it in the nose," Harry said. "And it tried to scrape me off with its club. And I'm yellin' at Ron, 'Do something!' And I hear him yell '_Wingardium Leviosa_!' and I felt myself get lighter — Ron had hit me with that bloody spell!"

I was laughing almost uncontrollably at this point. "What'd you do?" I finally gasped.

"It's not really funny, Uncle Jimmy!" Harry rumbled, but he was smiling, too. "Anyway, I figured I could make it look like Ron's spell hit the club, so I levitated it out of the troll's hand, then dropped it on its head. It fell over backwards, knocked out cold, and I jumped off its back and landed on the ground next to Ron.

"Wow," I said, breathlessly. "That's _quite_ a story! So everyone came out okay?"

"Yeah," Harry said, taking a big breath himself. "Ron thinks he saved me, so he feels pretty good about that. And Hermione was so happy I — er, _we_, came to get her that we've been friends ever since. McGonagall even gave us five points apiece, for stopping the troll!" Harry concluded.

"I see," I said, musingly. "So, um, why were those Ravenclaw girls teasing her about you, by the way?"  
"Oh —" Harry turned pink. "She'd just been saying she thought I was smarter than I let on in my classes."

"I wonder why she'd think that," I said, giving him an inquisitive look. Harry just shrugged.

"Dunno," he said at last, a small smile on his lips. "She and I sometimes talk after our classes, at lunch or dinner. Or we'll meet in the library and go over homework sometimes." His eyes glanced off to one side and I followed them, seeing Ron and Hermione coming our way, with Dudley in tow. Dudley was carrying a string bag that looked loaded with stuff. "Here they come now," Harry murmured.

I said "_Finite_," under my breath, dispelling the Ring of Silence just as the three shoppers reached us.

"We're ready to go now," Hermione announced, in a rather shrill tone.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, wondering why she seemed upset.

"Oh, just fine," she said, tightly. Both Ron and Dudley were glancing at each other and covering their mouths, with the look of boys sharing a joke that they didn't dare laugh out loud at.

Harry was giving Ron an inquisitive look, too. "All right there, Harry?" Ron asked him, with an airy smile Harry didn't join in on.

If no one was going to say anything, I decided to let it go until we got back home. It was nearly evening on Christmas Eve, and there was still dinner to make and presents to wrap before the morning. I herded the group toward the archway, then retrieved the soda bottle from the bin and enchanted it to return us to Little Whinging.

We landed in the living room, and everyone except Dudley quickly disappeared, leaving me alone with him. Assuming the worst (which sadly, was usually the case with Dudley), I gave him a stern look and said, "What did you do to Hermione?"

"Nothing!" he said automatically. Then, after a moment. "Well, me an' Ron were having her on a bit, because she kept trying to tell me what I ought to get Harry."

"And how were you 'having her on,' then?" I asked.

"Well, you know — about, uh, those," Dudley had bared his teeth and was pointing at the front two, obviously referring to Hermione's large front teeth. "Ron was, too!"

"And that made it okay, then?" I asked flatly. Dudley looked at me, sullen.

"I was just asking how things were at that school," he muttered, sounding resentful. "I asked them how Harry was doing, and that big bloke, Hagrid — the one with the motorcycle," he went on. "You know, what he'd been up to, what he'd done with that package, things like that. And she got all upset," Dudley complained, "like I was asking things I shouldn't know!"

"She probably wasn't expecting you to know about things like that, Dudley," I pointed out. "Muggles don't normally know about things going on at Hogwarts."

"Well, it's not my fault if I know things most Muggles don't, is it?" Dudley demanded.

"No," I said, "but that's no excuse to make fun of her teeth, is it?"  
Dudley shrugged. "Guess not."

I pointed toward the bag he still had in his hand. "Do you want me to wrap these presents for you?" I asked. "I can keep them here until tomorrow, and you can come over in the afternoon, after we eat, and get yours."

"I've got presents?" Dudley asked, eagerly. "How many?"

"A few," I said with a grin, taking the bag and looking in it. "Let's see, that looks like it's for Harry."

"Yeah," Dudley looked in the bag as well. "And that." He pointed at another item in the bag. "And that is, uh, for you. I guess that kind of ruins the surprise," he mumbled.

"I can manage to look happy to get it," I laughed. "Alright, I'll wrap these up for you, then. If you want to have dinner with us, we'll eat about noon, and open presents about one p.m."

"I'll try to be here," Dudley said, "Mum and Dad are usually wore out by one, so I can get away by then, I hope. See you later!" He took off out the front door. I put the bag in my den, for wrapping later, then went off to assess whatever damage had been done between Hermione and Ron.

By the time I found the trio, however, Dudley had been long forgotten; Hermione and Ron were well into a row that I had no trouble whatsoever locating. I found Ron and Harry standing at the door to Hermione's room; Harry glanced at me, giving me a _they're-at-it-again_ shrug as I stepped up beside him.

"I cannot _believe_ you could be so rude, Ronald Weasley!" Hermione was practically shouting at him, as she paced back and forth in her room, her sack of Christmas presents spilled out onto the bed. "Or I should say, I _can_ believe it, but I didn't think you would be so obvious about it!"

"I told you I didn't even _say_ it!" Ron protested vehemently, throwing up his hands angrily. "_Dudley_ said it, not me!"

"What did Dudley say?" I asked. Nobody answered me.

"And you _laughed_! You LAUGHED!" Hermione screeched. "Isn't it bad enough those bloody _hags_ in Ravenclaw laugh at me because I — because I'm friends with Harry! You have to do it TOO!"

"What did Dudley —" I tried again, but was cut off by Harry.

"Hermione, it's not that bad," Harry was saying. "Dudley doesn't know you —"

"Oh now YOU'RE defending him too!" She shot Harry a look of pure vitriol, then turned away and marched over to her bed, sitting down beside her sack of presents. "Just go away. All of you."

"What did —"

"PLEASE go away!" Hermione sobbed, turning away. "I don't want anyone to see me!"

I walked into the room anyway, stopping in front of her. Hermione folded her arms across her chest, her mouth set in a thin line, looking stubborn. "What did Dudley call you?" I asked her, quietly.

She looked away. After a few seconds Harry said, in a small voice, "He called her —"

"I can answer for myself, Harry, thank you very much!" she snapped, cutting him off. "He — he called me a — a _prig_!"

"He did?" I said, shocked. I looked at Ron. "Did he?" I asked him. Ron nodded. "I'm surprised — I didn't think Dudley even knew that word." Harry chuckled.

"Oh, marvelous," Hermione said, covering her face with her hands. "Even the smart people here think it's funny."

I sat down on the bed beside her. "Hermione, I can't believe you're really this upset because Harry's cousin called you a name he probably doesn't even understand."

"I'm not!"

"Then what are you upset about?"

"Because _he_ laughed at me, when he heard it!" Hermione said shrilly, pointing at Ron, who stood there trying to look innocent. "_And_ —" her finger jerked to point at Harry. "— he laughed, too, when he found out what that — that _boy_ said!"

I gave her a look of enormous sympathy. "Well, I can understand how that must've felt," I said, "but I think Harry and Ron must've been laughing more at _Dudley_, for using that word, than anything else. Dudley is not the deepest cauldron in the Potions classroom," I pointed out.

She looked up at me in surprise. "D'you — d'you think so? Really?" She looked at Harry and Ron. "Is that true?"

I turned to look at the boy, giving a wink as I did so, out of Hermione's view. "Oh, yeah," Harry offered up, immediately. "I knew Dudley could never come within ten miles of understanding that word, Hermione!"

"Right," Ron agreed. "He was just steamed we didn't have time to share stories about Harry and the magic we're learning at Hogwarts."

"Hold on," Harry said, stepping into the room to look at both Ron and Hermione. "Is that what started all this? Dudley just wanted to hear more stuff about _magic_? Dammit! _Where is he_?!"

"He went home," I said, quickly, to keep Harry from running downstairs to find him. "Harry, don't worry about him, we can deal with him tomorrow if he comes over for Christmas dinner."

"If he comes over tomorrow I'm going to _hex_ him," Harry growled, pulling out his wand. "I'm tired of his rubbish — I wish we'd never taken him with us to Diagon Alley!" Harry ran into his and Ron's room, slamming the door. Ron followed him, pausing at the door to look back at me.

"He gets this way, sometimes," he said, following Harry into their room.

I stood stock-still for several seconds, composing myself. The situation felt completely out of control — I never did feel I had a great handle on being a parent in the first place, and times like this seemed to reinforce it.

Hermione was watching me with a look of apprehension on her face. She probably thought I was about to explode, or something. Well, the last time I'd done that, I'd destroyed an entire fortress, floor by floor, in the Potter universe's afterlife — I wasn't planning on losing control _this_ time.

"Hermione," I said, calmly, "I'm going to go downstairs and get dinner ready. Would you come downstairs in about 30 minutes, and bring Harry and Ron with you?" She nodded, mutely, and I turned and walked out of her room and downstairs to the kitchen.

For the first twenty minutes, however, I did nothing but sit at the kitchen table, trying to calm myself down. I wasn't so much mad, as distracted, disjointed and disappointed by what had gone on today. I had hoped for a nice day with Harry and his friends, and it had somehow turned into a fiasco. I wondered if I had been counting too much on Dudley behaving — he'd managed to throw everyone here into a tizzy, and now he was at home with his parents, having a laugh with his mum and dad at the "freaks" who had tried very hard to make him feel liked and included in their lives. In addition, he was _still_ abusing the magical gifts I'd given him, even though I'd tried to make it plain that was not a good option for him. It was almost a laugh, I thought, smirking — I could bend space and time itself to my will, if I chose to, but I couldn't make a ruddy teenager behave!

It wasn't until I heard the sound of feet coming down the staircase that I did anything about dinner. It was too late for even magic to come through — I concentrated for a moment, bringing my Power to bear for the first since coming to this reality, and trays and bowls of food suddenly appeared on the table: plates of roast beef and chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn and peas, hot rolls and slices of fresh sliced bread, along with pitchers of pumpkin juice, water, and bottles of soda. The three of them ran into the kitchen and stopped, looking appreciatively at the feast before them.

"I knew I smelled something good upstairs!" Ron said, licking his lips.

In the case of wizards, it's often food, not music, that calms the savage breast; and true to form, the three of them quickly settled down and were talking easily about things that had happened at school during the first term. Hermione even asked if we could resume our session in the Pensieve, interrupted earlier that day by Dudley's arrival, but I put it off until after Christmas.

Ron asked if I had a receiver for the Wizarding Wireless Network, as it was Christmas Eve, and his family (actually just his mum, Ron said) had a tradition of listening to Celestina Warbeck singing Christmas songs. As a matter of completeness, being a wizard, I did have one, though I'd never used it before. I set it up in the den and Ron tuned it in, and we sat around for a while listening to Warbeck singing "Silver Cauldrons," and other Christmas favorites for some time.

Finally, the late dinner had settled in on the three and they were half-nodding in their chairs. I shooed them up to their rooms, reminding them to get cleaned up before they went to sleep, then cleared away dinner with a Vanishing Spell. I took a few minutes to wrap everyone's presents, even Dudley's, as well as the gift I planned to send his mother and father, a pewter serving tray, which I made appear under the mail slot of the front door, in front of a hole it was much too large to fit through; I expected they would be able figure out where it came from.

After I was sure the three Hogwarts students had gone to sleep, I sent their bedside presents up at the foot of their beds, for them to find on Christmas morning, as was tradition. Later in the day, we'd indulge one of _my_ traditions, opening gifts together after we'd eaten Christmas dinner. I just hoped tomorrow would end better than today had.

***

I woke up early Christmas morning, thanks to a small spell I placed on myself, to awaken me when Harry, Ron or Hermione first got up. Kids must have some kind of "Christmas radar" because within a few minutes of Harry opening his eyes, all three of them were up and opening their bedside presents. I could hear Ron pointing out the sweater Mrs. Weasley had knitted for him, and Hermione shouting thanks to them for the presents Ron and Harry had gotten her (which amounted to more candy, which she would share with them). Anticipating their next move, I got up and dressed, then went downstairs to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

I had eggs, sausages and toast nearly ready by the time Harry and Ron made it down to the kitchen. "Good morning!" I said as they sat down and looked over hungrily at the eggs cooking. "Ready for breakfast?"

"Yes, please," Ron and Harry said, in unison.

"Is Hermione coming?" I asked, as I spooned eggs onto their plates, then set out sausage and toast for them.

"She was right behind us," Harry said, and there was a flurry of hands and arms as the sausages and toast were scooped onto their plates.

"Are you going to make some more for her?" Ron asked as a sausage link went into his mouth. Nearly half of them had disappeared on their way to Ron and Harry's plates.

"I suppose I am," I said, surveying the dent they'd already made. I tossed a half-dozen more into the skillet (Hermione didn't eat nearly as much as Ron or Harry) and began making more scrambled eggs.

Hermione came into the room, carrying a flat parcel. "Harry, this was laying on your bed when I walked by your room. Did you forget to open it?"

"No," Harry said, taking the box curiously. "It wasn't there when I left my room."

"Oh," Hermione said to me, "thank you for the quill set, Mr. Monroe, they're very nice!"

"You're welcome, Hermione," I said, watching Harry staring bemusedly at the box she'd handed him. "Who's that from?" I asked him.

"Dunno," Harry said. "No name on it." He unwrapped the package, and pulled out a length of shiny, silvery-gray cloth. Ron's eyes widened.

"Blimey," he gasped. "I've heard of those — it's an invisibility cloak! They're really rare, and _really_ valuable!"

"Who would give one to Harry?" Hermione asked, and Harry glanced toward me, but I shook my head, very slightly.

"Look!" Ron pointed at a piece of parchment on the floor. "A note fell out of it!" Harry picked it up and read it.

_ Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you.  
Use it well.  
A Very Merry Christmas to you_

"It's not signed," Harry said, handing me the note. I recognized the handwriting, even though I already know who'd sent it to Harry — Professor Dumbledore.

"Try it on, Harry!" Ron urged him. Harry swung the cloak around his shoulders, and both Ron and Hermione sighed in awe — Harry's body, from the shoulders down, had disappeared, leaving his disembodied head floating above the ground. Hermione clapped her hands in delight.

After breakfast, I shooed everyone out of the kitchen so I could start preparing Christmas dinner. Or so I told them. I dithered a bit, knowing Dumbledore might not like what I was going to do (for several reasons) but I could rationalize my actions as making sure Harry, Ron and Hermione had a very Hogwarts-style Christmas feast. Taking an old wooden spoon from the counter, I tapped it with my wand, watching as it glowed blue for a moment and shuddered in my hand. I took a deep breath just as the Portkey pulled me into a whirlwind of color and sounds, and I landed, moments later, in a broad stone corridor, standing before a large picture of a silver fruit bowl. I stored both my wand and the spoon in my belt.

I reached out, tickling a fat green pear in the bowl. It began to squirm, chuckling, then suddenly turned into a bright green handle. I pulled on it and the picture swung open, revealing an enormous room, lined with copper pots and pans and sporting a huge fireplace at its opposite end, along with about a hundred short, large-eared humanoids, all dressed in red towels, each one with the Hogwarts crest worked into them. I was in the Hogwarts kitchens.

There were four tables in the room, I saw; each table was positioned about where the four House tables were situated, in the Great Hall above. They were clear at the moment, I saw, as breakfast had been cleared away. But I could already smell the delicious aroma of turkey and ham, roast beef and potatoes, corn and peas and stuffing and fresh-baked bread, cranberry sauce and other smells like puddings and pasty pies and treacle tarts, to name but a few…

The house-elves, who'd been staring at me, probably wondering what I was doing down here, picked one of their number to approach me.

"Happy Christmas, honored sir," the house-elf said, bowing low in front of me. "Is there something we may get for you?"

"Yes, thank you," I said, smiling. "I'd like to cater a dinner, please?"

My little joke flew right over their heads — the elves stared at one another blankly. "Pardon, honored sir," the house-elf who'd first addressed me said, "Boddy does not understand what sir means by 'catered'."

"Are you Boddy?" I asked.

The house-elf nodded, staring up at me with his large, luminous eyes, a ridiculously long nose, and bat-like ears. "Boddy is at your services, honored sir. It is Boddy's job to make sure the kitchens are always prepared to serve the students and honored staff at Hogwarts." He bowed low once again; his ears touched the floor in front of me.

"Well, what I mean, Boddy, is that I have three of your students visiting me, and they have never had a Christmas feast at Hogwarts before," I told him. Boddy nodded at this, a look of grave concern on his long, homely face.

"That is terrible, sir!" he exclaimed, and all of the elves nearby nodded with utmost concern as well. "Will the students be able to return to Hogwarts in time for the Christmas feast today?"

"Unfortunately, no," I said, a tinge of sadness in my voice. "But, this is where your assistance comes in," I said briskly. "I would like to have some of your Christmas feast sent to my home in Little Whinging, for them to enjoy!"

Boddy looked confused. "Little Whinging?" he repeated. "Boddy is not sure where that is, honored sir…"

"Not to worry," I said, taking my wand from my pocket along with a small piece of wood. The wood was a leaf from my kitchen table, shrunken down to fit in my pocket. I placed on the ground near the table below the Gryffindor House table, then waved my wand at it. The leaf instantly transfigured into a perfect copy of my kitchen table.

"This table," I said, "works exactly the same as the House tables — you can put food on _this_ table —" I pointed to the one I had just transfigured "— and when it's summoned it will reappear on the other one. And vice-versa.

"What I'd like you to do," I told Boddy, "is make sure this table is loaded with food for the Christmas feast, so the students at my home can enjoy it with the other students."

I was relying on the house-elf's trust of wizards in general to carry this argument for me. If he decided to check with Dumbledore, I was sunk.

Boddy bowed low before me. "It will be done as the honored sir commands," he said obediently. I nodded, smiling, and swallowed my sigh of relief. "The feast will be prepared and ready to serve by twelve o'clock."

"Very good," I said, then raised my voice. "I will commend all of you to Dumbledore, the next time I see him." All of the elves beamed and began bowing and curtseying profusely, thanking me.

I turned to leave, then snapped my fingers and looked back at Boddy. "Would you happen to have some eggnog made up?" The words were barely out of my mouth before a house-elf came running up with a large pitcher of it in her hands. I thanked her, taking the pitcher and tapped the lid with my wand to secure it tightly. "You're the best," I told her, with a wink, and she tittered, then waved as I turned back to the door.

I exited the kitchen, returning to the corridor, where I turned the spoon into a Portkey once again and returned to my kitchen, calling out, "Anyone want some eggnog?" after I arrived. We sat down in the living room and chatted about some of the other things that had been going on during first term. Harry recalled their first broom flying lesson, in which Neville managed to fly off on his broom and Madam Hooch had to chase after him, leaving the rest of the class on their own. Malfoy, seeing Neville's Remembrall, picked it up and threatened to throw it, and Harry challenged him to give it back. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle then played a game of "keep-away" with Harry and the device, which culminated when Malfoy threw it high in the air and Harry mounted his broom and flew after it, catching it mere inches from the ground as McGonagall came out to check on them. She marched Harry off the field, seemingly to expel him, but instead took him to Dumbledore's study and requested an exclusion for Harry to be allowed to play on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling merrily, granted.

"The look on Malfoy's face," Harry said, chuckling, "the first time I walked past him in my Gryffindor Quidditch uniform on the way to practice, I thought he was going to have a fit! He actually ran to Snape to report me, like I was pretending to be on the team so I could fly my broom! I wish I could have been there when Snape gave him the bad news, that I _was_ on the team."

A little before noon, I had the three set the dining room table in preparation of our own mini-feast. "I'll fix the plates in the kitchen," I told them, to save space on the table." My dining room table easily accommodated me for meals when I was alone, but the four of us would make for a crowded meal. Just at noon I heard a slight _pop_ of air displacing as an array of hot and steaming dishes, laden with food, appeared on the kitchen table, along with a stack of five golden plates to serve it on.

I'd had each of them fill in a small card with the foods they wanted on their plates, and in the kitchen I rapidly filled each plate with the requested items, then floated them out onto the dining room table, along with drinks for each of us. With linen napkins, and crystal goblets for drinking, it was going to be a very fine feast indeed.

I listened as Hermione and Ron shared stories about previous Christmases each of them had enjoyed with their parents. Ron's memories were of the Burrow, often filled to capacity with his parents, brothers and their aunts and uncles, telling stories and drinking eggnog and butterbeer, the adults sometimes sharing stronger stuff later in the evening, and singing or listening to the Wizarding Wireless unit. Hermione's, in contrast, were spent with her parents and perhaps a few close friends or relatives, some she remembered from her younger days. Their get-togethers were more quiet but equally enjoyable.

Harry listened to these stories with a small smile on his lips, enjoying them for the hearing, and for who was telling them, though I got the impression he could hardly imagine the happiness that Ron and Hermione associated with Christmastime. At the Dursleys, Christmas had never been a happy time for Harry; though he got presents from his aunt and uncle, they were given grudgingly, cognizant of the fact that the money they used to buy presents (mostly for Dudley) came to them because of Harry's presence in their house.

Hermione, finally cottoning on to Harry's mood, finished by saying, "Well, it wasn't all great times, I suppose, but it's just as nice to be here now with friends. May I propose a toast? To friends, the new as well as the old," and we clinked out goblets of pumpkin juice, soda and water.

I heard a _pop_ in the kitchen, and found that dinner had been replaced by dessert, along with a new set of golden plates. "Ready for pudding?" I asked, and all three nodded enthusiastically. I floated our empty dinner plates out into the kitchen, seeing as I did Hermione staring curiously at hers as it floated away. Instead of loading up plates this time, I floated several of the desserts in from the kitchen; it would be simpler to let everyone make their own choices. There were several kinds, including some flaming pudding that Ron went for right away. I settled for a piece of pumpkin pie with a large dollop of whipped cream on it, while Hermione opted for a slice of cherry pie, placing a scoop of ice cream on top of it. Harry tried a piece of the flaming pudding as well, and at one point stopped in mid-bite, reached into his mouth, and pulled out a Galleon! Ron went through several more pieces of the pudding after that, but no other bits of money turned up.

We finally pushed away from the table, belts now a bit uncomfortable as they pressed against our distended stomachs. "I am absolutely full," I said with satisfaction.

"Me too," Ron said, covering a small belch. "Don't think I could eat another bite, even if you paid me."

"That would be a first," Hermione muttered to Harry. "Ron not accepting either food or money." Harry gave her a _Hey-it's-Christmas_ look but said nothing.

Ron hadn't heard — he'd been looking back at the Christmas tree, in the living room. "So is it time to open the presents under the tree, yet?" he asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"Almost," I said, taking out my wand and passing it over the table. The desserts and plates disappeared, leaving only the tablecloth, silverware and drinking goblets. I waved my wand again and they Vanished as well, to another countertop in the kitchen. The food and plates I'd returned to the kitchen table, where I expected they would disappear back to Hogwarts shortly.

There was a knock on the door. "That's probably Dudley, coming over to open presents," I said, looking at Harry. "That's going to be okay, isn't it?"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

"Go let him in," I said, I'll make sure everything's okey-dokey in the kitchen." I checked to see that everything was situated okay in the kitchen, then made a glass of soda, anticipating Dudley's request for one. Back in the living room, Hermione and Ron were greeting Dudley; Hermione's greeting was a bit cool but Ron seemed pleased to see him again. All of the presents were beneath the tree.

"Hi, Dudley," I said, handing him the glass of soda. "Have a soda."

"Thanks," Dudley said, sipping from it. "Did you eat yet?"

"Just finished," Harry said, sounding more chipper at giving Dudley this news than usual. "Sorry you missed it, it was delicious!"

Dudley's face fell. "Don't you have any _left_?"

"Didn't you already eat at home?" I asked.

"Well, yeah," Dudley shrugged. "But that was a half-hour ago!"

"We're opening presents now," Ron said, his voice firm. "You can eat later."

"Ron, will you hand out the presents, please?" I asked, since Ron seemed the most eager to get started. Ron nodded and started passing out boxes to everyone. Opening hers from Harry, Hermione found the book _Arithmancy Puzzles for the Magically Brilliant_, by Marius Gartner.

"Ooh, that looks interesting," she said, beaming. "Thank you, Harry!"

Harry had opened his present from his cousin — it was a wand. He was looking at it, and at Dudley, with a quizzical expression. "Dudley?" he said, surprised. "I already have a wand. Why would you give me another one?"

"Give it a wave," Dudley said, tearing open his own present from Harry.

Harry waved the wand. A banner shot out of the end with the word "BANG!" on it, making a lot report as it did so. Everyone jerked, and Dudley laughed. "Very funny," Harry said, shaking it again — the banner shot back inside.

"What's this supposed to be?" Dudley held up what looked like a large, white marble. As he held it, it began to glow red, making Dudley look at it apprehensively.

"It's a Remembrall," Hermione said at once, then looked at Harry. "Like the one Neville had!" She looked back at Dudley. "It glows red like that if there's something you've forgotten to do."

Dudley snorted. "Not very handy, unless it reminds me what it is I've forgotten!"

"You're supposed to remember _that_ on your own," Harry said plaintively. "Once you remember it'll become white again." Dudley looked at it a moment longer, then shrugged and put it in his pants pocket.

Ron was looking at his gift from Hermione, a Spell-Checker Quill. "Oh, good!" he said, "I can use one of these!"

"No doubt why I got it for you, then," Hermione said, sardonically.

Ron handed out another round of presents. He handed one to me, from Harry. Curious, I opened it and found a book titled _My Little Phoenix_, by Barbiella Hasbrot, with a cute picture of a blue phoenix on the cover. It was obviously a book for wizard children.

"For your library," Harry said, with a smile. "I saw a serious lack of children's literature in it, and thought I'd give you a start with that."

"Great," I said, chuckling. "I'll start a new section for it."

Ron had opened his next present after passing out the others, and was displaying his gift from Harry, a jersey for the Chudley Cannons; on the back were the words "Captain Ron." "Excellent!" Ron said, pulling it on over his shirt. "Thanks, Harry!" Harry nodded as he finished opening his present from Hermione, a broomstick servicing kit.

"Very nice, thank you!" he smiled at Hermione, and she smiled shyly back.

"Wow!" Dudley said, as the wrapping of his present from Ron fell away and he found a large box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. He began tearing at the top of the box to get inside. Meanwhile, Hermione had unwrapped her gift from Dudley, a quill.

"Well, that's very thoughtful," she said to Dudley, in a tone of surprise; she had half-expected no present at all, or a joke present like Harry had gotten. "Thank you very much." Dudley nodded, grinning, then suddenly began fanning his mouth after eating a curry-flavored bean.

There were still lots of presents to go. Harry's gift from Ron was a copy of _Flying with the Cannons_, while Ron had given Hermione some Chudley Cannon stationery. Dudley's present to me was an Auto-Ink Quill, which could be used like a ball-point pen. It was actually very practical for me since I preferred pens to quills. Harry opened his present from me, a copy of the text _Topics in Advanced Transfiguration_, a book that made Hermione give him an indulgent smile. From me, Dudley got a pocketknife with a special blade that would open any lock—I saw Harry shake his head as Dudley thanked me profusely for it. No doubt Harry foresaw his cousin using it for illicit purposes, as did I. What I wouldn't tell Dudley was that every time it opened a locked door, I would know about it, and where it was done.

The space under the tree was nearly empty of presents now. There was a card on the tree addressed to me, from Hermione; inside was a thank-you card and a letter expressing her gratitude for the hospitality shown during her stay in my house. I nodded at her, smiling, and mouthed the words, "You're welcome." Ron's last present was a wand from Dudley. He gave it a tentative wave and it turned into a small version of a Beater's bat, which made him chuckle. The last present under the tree was a basket of shampoo and conditioning products from _Bathtime Bewitchments_, a shop in Diagon Alley that sold bath, shower and beauty aids.

"Well, that's it," Ron said, as Hermione thanked me for the basket.

"Wait, what's that?" Dudley said, pointing to the flat parcel containing Harry's Invisibility Cloak; he'd apparently left it under the tree this morning after showing it to me.

"Nothing," said Harry, but Ron pulled it open and threw it around his shoulders, showing off. Dudley gasped as all of Ron disappeared except for his head.

"It's an Invisibility Cloak," Ron said. "Harry got it from someone, we don't know who. This'll be great for sneaking about the castle, won't it, Harry?"

"I suppose," Harry said, his voice tight. I knew he hadn't wanted his cousin to see that cloak. Looking at Dudley, it was easy to see why.

His eyes were glowing greedily. "I'd like to borrow that sometime, Harry," he said, never taking his eyes off of Ron's disembodied head, as he walked back and forth in front of the Christmas tree.

"Like that's ever going to happen," Harry said flatly.

"Why not?" Dudley wanted to know, his voice getting loud.

"'Why _not_?'" Harry repeated, shocked. "You've already stolen stuff from half the places in Little Whinging with those other magical things you've got! An Invisibility Cloak would make you practically unstoppable!"

"I'm not stealing stuff!" Dudley shouted. "Take that back!"

"Oh _that's_ a pretty ironic thing to say, isn't it — 'Take it back!'" Harry sneered. "Tell you what — I'll let you use the Cloak after you've taken back everything you've stolen. That ought to be good for the next year or so!"

Dudley started to say something, but looked around at the rest of us and suddenly thought better of it. He grabbed up the pocketknife and box of Every Flavor beans and stomped to the door. "Just you wait, Potter!" he said savagely. "Wait 'til you get back this summer — then we'll see who's got the better presents, and the better magic!" He yanked open the door and stormed out, slamming it shut behind him.

"Rats," said Ron. "I was going to have some more Every Flavor Beans before he left."

"He's starting to show his true colors," Harry said, staring at the door with a dark expression on his face. "He wants that Invisibility Cloak and he's not likely to just forget about it by this summer."

"Blimey, Harry!" Ron exclaimed. "I shouldn't've pulled it out like that. I'm sorry!"

"Don't worry about it," Harry shook his head dismissively. "It's months before I see him again."

"Well, I guess that's that —" I stopped in mid-sentence, looking at the tree curiously. "Wait a minute — what's that I see?" I pointed toward the tree.

"Where?" Both Harry and Ron were peering curiously where I was pointing.

"See that package, behind the tree?" I pointed. All three of the Hogwarts students were looking now, curious at what I'd seen.

"I see it!" Ron said. "Wrapped up in brown paper, back there! What could it be?"

"Why don't you levitate it out of there, Ron?" I suggested. Ron looked at me, surprised, but pulled out his wand.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_!" he said, and they heard a rattling behind the tree. Ron repeated the spell, and a few moments later, a long, thin object floated up behind the tree, then over it and down into Ron's hands, as he'd directed it.

"Look!" he said, pointing to a tag on it. "It's got my name on it!"

"Open it, open it!" I urged. Ron tore into the wrapping, and after a moment Harry and Hermione helped pull it away, revealing a brand-new Cleansweep Seven racing broom.

"Oh. Wow." Ron could hardly believe it. He was staring in shock at the finely polished oak handle and the even, neatly trimmed row of twigs along the back. "This — this is brand new, isn't it?"

"It looks it," Harry said. "I guess you'll have to retire that old Shooting Star of yours, now."

"I've got no problem with that," Ron said feelingly. "Blimey! An actual _new_ broom of my own! I still can't believe it!"

"Be sure and take care of it, Ronald," Hermione said, authoritatively.

"Yes, _mother_," Ron riposted, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Hermione glowered at him.

"It's still Christmas," I reminded them. "Let's try for a bit more cheer, shall we?"

Harry and Ron decided to test Harry's new broom servicing kit on Ron's Cleansweep Seven, even after Hermione pointed out that a new broom wouldn't _need_ servicing. That was hardly the point, Ron told her. They went off to my den, to check out both the kit and Ron's broom. Hermione asked permission to check out my library, and I gave it, telling her I might come down later to see what she'd found.

I retired to the kitchen, where I could magic another Portkey and travel to Hogwarts to retrieve my table leaf, currently transfigured into a table and magically linked to my kitchen table, from the kitchens at Hogwarts. I didn't want to leave that around for Dumbledore to stumble across. I had no idea how often the headmaster might visit the house-elves down in the kitchens.

Appearing once again in the corridor leading down from the Entrance Hall, I tickled the pear to gain entrance to the kitchens and greeted the house-elves who quickly scurried over to see what I wanted.

"Is Boddy around?" I asked, looking for him. It was difficult to sort out the male and female elves, as they looked almost exactly alike.

"Boddy is here, honored sir!" Boddy came forward, bowing low before me once again. "What may we do next for the honored sir?"

"I thought I'd come and clear my table out of your way." I pointed to the small table sitting next to the long one representing Gryffindor's House table.

"As you wish, honored sir," Boddy bowed low again. "Boddy also wishes to give the honored sir a message, from Professor Dumbledore."

"Oh?" I said, with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Was I busted this easily? "What's the message, Boddy?"

"I can give Mr. Monroe the message, Boddy," a deep voice behind me said cheerfully. I turned to see Dumbledore standing just inside the door of the kitchen, smiling at me. Boddy bowed deeply to the headmaster and disappeared into the throng of busily working house-elves.

I turned and walked back to join Dumbledore. "Hello, Professor," I said, deciding that fortune favored the bold. "What's the message?"

"In the future, Mr. Monroe," Dumbledore replied, mildly, "such requests for off-campus delivery of feast-day comestibles should be directed to the headmaster, not to the kitchen staff."

"Duly noted," I said, lightly. "Anything else?"

Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a moment. I had expected him to be upset or angry with me, in part because of the use of his kitchen staff for my personal convenience, but also because I had been in communication with Harry, but that didn't seem to matter to him at the moment.

"Perhaps we should speak further, in my office," Dumbledore said at last. "Will you join me?" I nodded, and Dumbledore led the way, up to the Entrance Hall, then up the main staircase and along a winding, twisting course up several floors, then down a number of corridors until we reached a large stone gargoyle standing before a section of the wall.

"Sherbet lemon," Dumbledore said, and the gargoyle leapt aside. The wall split open, revealing a spiral stone staircase leading upward, which began to move escalator-fashion (although this would have been impossible with a Muggle spiral staircase), taking us upward. At the top was a heavy oaken door, highly polished, which unlocked as Dumbledore pointed at it, granting us access.

"Would you like some tea?" Dumbledore offered, courteously, after we were seated, and I accepted. "How was your Christmas?" he inquired, after we'd both sipped from our cups.

"Could have been better," I said, honestly. "But all in all, it was pleasant enough. How was the feast here?"

"Very nice," Dumbledore said. "Very nice, indeed. We had quite the time celebrating the day with the few students who remained. I was sorry to see that Harry and his friends weren't among those who did."

"It was a last-minute decision, from what Harry said," I replied.

"Oh, no doubt, no doubt," Dumbledore nodded. Young Harry can be quite impulsive at times, I am given to believe. As proof of that, I offer this little-known fact: The package Hagrid brought with him from Gringotts was stolen this Christmas Eve."

"_What_?" I exclaimed, staring at Dumbledore disbelievingly. "But you had it protected —!"

"Quite well, or so I believed," Dumbledore agreed, ruefully.

"Do you suspect Harry, then?" I asked, not thinking he would bother to even entertain the thought.

"Actually, I rather hope so," Dumbledore replied, surprisingly. He reached into a pocket in his robes, pulling out a brown paper-wrapped object and placing on the desk between us. The wrapping was undone and the object inside clearly visible. It was a fist-sized chunk of a stone-like material.

"This was recovered on the grounds outside the castle, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest," Dumbledore told me. "The person who stole it apparently discarded it before retreating into the cover of the woods.

"As you can see, it is _not_ the Philosopher's Stone."

I picked up the object, looking at it closely. It was rough-textured, as if it had been broken from a larger piece of the same material. Around its middle were several shallow concave areas, as if it had been gripped tightly by a very strong hand. I looked up at Dumbledore. "You think Harry had a hand in this?" I asked, not bothering to smile at the pun in my question.

"It is my hope, actually," Dumbledore clarified, "that just before leaving on the Hogwarts Express, Harry substituted this piece of rock for the real Philosopher's Stone, having realized it was imminent danger of being stolen by Professor Quirrell."

"You suspect Quirrell of trying to steal it?"

"It is a virtual certainty," the headmaster replied. "One of my staff, Professor Snape, suspected Quirrell has been trying to abscond with the Stone since he first arrived at school in late August. Unfortunately, Professor Snape was…distracted… by other matters yesterday and Quirrell was able to breach the corridor's security, obtain the package, and flee the castle.

"It is fortunate, in a way, that he decided to verify the Stone was in the package before he left the grounds; else, we would not have known that he'd stolen a fake before Harry returned at the start of winter term."

"Didn't you _check_ the package before you hid it away on the third floor?" I asked, curiously.

"There was no need," Dumbledore replied, with a dismissive gesture. "Hagrid had come directly from Diagon Alley — you recall I spoke with him at the ice cream parlour there, before our own conversation. I performed a simple detection spell at the time, very unobtrusively, and learned he indeed had the Stone in his possession. When he arrived at the school, I directed him to secure the package on the corridor with the guard he'd arranged for it."

"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news," I told him, my voice tense. "But Harry didn't bring the Stone back to Little Whinging with him — I doubt he even knows it's missing!"

Dumbledore looked concerned. "Harry _must_ have taken the Stone — it has not been out of that corridor since the beginning of August, when I had Hagrid put it there!"

I shook my head, a firm _no_. "You're making an incorrect assumption, Professor — that the Philosopher's Stone was successfully secured within the corridor in the first place. I know it was not. Further, I think I know who actually took it!"

"Who?" Dumbledore asked, anxiously.

"Dudley Dursley, Harry's cousin!" I replied.

"If that is true," Dumbledore said, gravely, "then he, and everyone else in Little Whinging, is in mortal peril, if Quirrell decides to go there to obtain the Stone for his master, Voldemort!"


	9. Stone Cold Dead

**Chapter 9 – Stone Cold Dead**

I immediately came to my feet. "I think we'd better find out where Quirrell is, immediately, and keep him from going after the Stone."

Dumbledore stood as well. "I agree," he said, and moved to one of the spindly tables, on top of which were perched several of his silvery devices. Taking out his wand, he tapped one of them, saying "Where is Professor Quirinus Quirrell?"

A pair of small silver balls on the top began spinning madly, and it vented several puffs of steam, giving off a series of high-pitched tooting sounds. I watched tensely, not wanting to waste any more time. I could locate Quirrell in about a second, if it came down to that. I just hoped he was still in the Forbidden Forest, where he seemed to be headed after stealing the Stone. But, once he realized the Stone was a fake, he might have gone anywhere.

"Oh, dear," Dumbledore said, suddenly, and my attention jumped back to him. He had a most grave expression on his face. "My Wizard Locator says that Quirrell is currently in Little Whinging."

_Crap. Crap! Crap!! _"We'd better get there, too," I said, hurriedly. "Fast."

Dumbledore nodded curtly. "I will go to Privet Drive. You check your home. If we don't find him at either place we should meet at Mrs. Figg's house and make sure he's not there either, to be safe."

"I'll go to Privet Drive," I countered. "Dudley and his parents know me better than they do you."

"It is unlikely Quirrell is there," Dumbledore pointed out. "If Voldemort has possessed him or is using his body for transportation, he will not be able to approach the house — the blood bond I sealed on his aunt and the area surrounding their home would cause him agonizing pain."

"All the more reason for you to go to my house," I replied, my words tumbling out in a rush. "You have an advantage over Voldemort — he's afraid of you. That could give you the edge in a duel."

Dumbledore hesitated only a moment, then nodded his agreement. He picked up a quill from his desk and tapped it with his wand. I picked up another quill and did the same. "I will see you at Mrs. Figg's if he is not at your home —" At that moment the Portkey took him. A moment later the quill I held tugged me into a whirlwind of motion and color, and I landed on the sidewalk in front of number four, Privet Drive.

I could already see there was trouble here: the front door was slightly ajar. Keeping my wand at the ready, I approached cautiously. A dozen feet from the door, I sent a _Homenum Revelio_ spell through the front door. It showed no human presence in the house, either Muggle or wizard. I stepped inside, looking around carefully. My breath, even inside, was visible — most of the warmth being generated by the heating system was flowing out the front door.

The Dursleys were gone — but where? What would have made _all_ of them leave their home on Christmas Day, and leave it unlocked and unprotected, to boot? I was going to have to use some specialized charms to figure out what had happened. On a hunch, I cast the Shadow Passage Charm: it was a spell that would show recent motion by a wizard through the area it was cast upon. It wouldn't show any motion by Muggles. I expected to see Harry's shadow, and perhaps one from Ron or Hermione as well. In spite of what Dumbledore said, I also suspected that Quirrell might have been here as well — if Voldemort left his body for a time it was possible he could pass through the blood bond protection. There wasn't enough information to know for sure.

Instead of any of them, however, I saw the image of Mrs. Figg appear at the door of the house. She made beckoning gestures, obviously asking whoever she was talking with to follow her. I watched her image walk back toward the sidewalk, dissipating as it moved beyond the range of my spell. She seemed to have been leading at least one person behind her. I guessed that she'd brought the Dursleys back to her house. Too bad the spell only worked on wizards (and Squibs, apparently) — it would have been useful to see who had followed her.

I might have been relieved if anyone other than Voldemort was involved. Since he couldn't approach number four Privet Drive directly, however, I could see him sending Mrs. Figg over, to lure them to her house. I Disapparated immediately, reappearing across the street from Mrs. Figg's house, sending another _Homenum Revelio _charm at the house. The spell revealed one human, a Muggle, inside the house. Keeping my wand at my side, but still ready to use at a moment's notice, I approached the house, cursing inwardly. With no wizards and only one Muggle presence in the house, I expected the worst. I found it.

The stench of death hung heavily in the living room. I found three chairs placed in a row — the first one was empty, broken ropes scattered about the legs. The second one held the unconscious form of Petunia Dursley, slumped forward, her hair disheveled and her blouse torn; I could see cuts and bruises on her shoulders, arms and upper chest. Her legs were streaked with welts and cuts as well. Voldemort, I suspected, had worked her over pretty well (or at least Quirrell had, at his command). In the third chair I found — a body.

Unlike Petunia, Vernon Dursley hardly had a mark on him. Also unlike her, his head was lolling back; it looked rather uncomfortable for a man with nearly no neck, but then, he wasn't feeling anything. He was stone cold dead, probably from the Killing Curse. There was nothing I could do for him. Paradoxically, I felt sad, because no one, not even a jerk like Vernon Dursley, deserved to be trussed up like a turkey and executed, especially on Christmas Day.

The empty seat had held Dudley, I suspected. Quirrell/Voldemort had probably arrived here, Imperiused Mrs. Figg, then sent her over to the Dursleys to fetch Dudley, probably to use as a hostage against Harry. That might have worked, I thought, if Harry knew where the Philosopher's Stone was. But, from as much as I'd heard from him about it, I figured he thought it was safe in that third-floor corridor. I didn't know when or how, yet, but Dudley _must_ have stolen the Stone from Hagrid, somehow, when he took them back to Privet Drive!

I looked around the room quickly, to see what else I might have missed after finding Petunia and Vernon trussed up in the middle of the room. I saw Mr. Tibbles lying in a corner, dead; his fur looked scorched. I was almost surprised to see him, given Nagini's appetite, but perhaps Voldemort hadn't acquired the snake yet.

I checked in the kitchen, to see what else might have happened, and found Mrs. Figg's body sprawled on the floor, her right arm extended toward the back door. It looked like she had tried to make a run for it. Of course that might not work too well if the person you're running from has eyes, literally, in the back of his head.

Before I returned to my house, there was one last thing to do. I returned to the living room, pointed my wand at Petunia and said, "_Rennervate_." Her body jolted as the magical energy flowed into her. She lifted her head slowly and looked at me — then took a sharp breath as if to scream. I quickly added a Silencing Charm, and her blood-curdling scream was reduced to a mere exhalation of breath.

"Don't scream," I told her shortly, but she kept going on silently, wasting precious time. "Petunia," I said, taking her thin face in one of my hands, and leaned down to speak directly to her. "Get a grip on yourself and — _stop_ — _screaming_." She finally closed her mouth, looking at me with terror-filled eyes.

"Better," I said. "Now I'm going to drop the charm that's keeping you from making any sound. Will you be able to tell me what happened without going into hysterics?"

Petunia didn't know whether to nod or shake her head, as paralyzed with fear as she was. She opened her mouth but nothing came out (of course), then cast her eyes, first to her right, seeing the empty chair Dudley had been in, then to the left, where she saw her dead husband. She began to shake uncontrollably.

"Petunia," I said roughly, taking her by the shoulders. "Look at me. Look at _me_! Vernon is gone, but your son may still be alive. Now tell me what happened!" I dropped the Silencing spell without bothering to point my wand at her.

"M-m-mrs. F-Figg," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "C-came over to ask a f-favor, she s-said. W-wanted D-Diddy to help her w-with her C-Christmas dinner." She glanced sideways at her husband's body. "V-Vernon had b-been sipping on some s-sherry — he, he insisted on going along, t-to help. S-said I — I should g-go along as well. Mrs. F-Figg just wanted Diddy…" She looked up at me with haunted eyes. "T-then when we got h-here, that horrid m-man with the t-turban and the — the — wand… tied us up. He — he asked Diddy where Harry Potter was. Diddy said he didn't — didn't know. Th-then he started hurting m-me…" Petunia trailed off, looking at the empty chair. "When I lost consciousness," she finally said, looking back at me. "Vernon was still alive, and Diddy was still here. Now — now Vernon's dead," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "And Diddy — Diddy's…"

"I'm going to find him," I said, standing. I flicked my wand and her bonds fell away. She didn't move. "I'll bring him back to you, Petunia," I told her.

"If he's alive," she said, in a monotone. "If that — that _monster_ hasn't k-killed him." She looked up at me, determination sparking in her eyes. "I want to come with you," she said, insistently. "I want to make sure Dudley's okay."

I shook my head. "No —" she started to protest but I cut her off. "No time to argue about this, Petunia — you've been tortured, you need to go in for treatment _now_." She shook her head, starting to get up anyway, but I pointed my wand at her and said, "_Obliviate_!" removing her memories for the last 10 minutes. She immediately slumped back into the chair, looking stunned, and I followed up the Memory Charm with "_Obdormis venefiris_!" casting the Bewitched Sleep charm on her. Her eyes closed and her breathing stopped. I checked her pulse — it had slowed to about four or five beats per minute. I could just barely detect a pulse at her neck.

I added a _Finite_ spell that would be triggered by the next person to touch her, which would end the Bewitched Sleep Spell, then picked up a knick-knack off a nearby shelf and Transfigured it into a phone receiver, magically connecting it to the next-door neighbor's phone line. I picked up the handset and dialed the emergency number.

"Surrey emergency services," a lady on the other end of the line said, in an almost-bored monotone. "Please state your emergency."

"I live on Wisteria Walk," I said, in a woman's terrified voice. "I've been hearing strange noises coming from the house to the east of me. I think someone's being murdered!"

"What is your address, please?" the emergency lady asked.

"It's —" I had to cheat and stare through the walls of Mrs. Figg's house to see the number on the front of the house next door, "— number fourteen. Please hurry!"

"We're sending someone out, can I have your name —" I hung up and returned the phone back to its original form, replacing it on the shelf. Next, I tapped myself on the head with the wand, casting a Disillusionment Charm. I felt the cold sensation trickle quickly down my head and sides, then held out my arm, watching it fade to nothingness. Now I just had to hope that Dumbledore had taken care of Quirrell in short order, or that we could figure out where he'd taken Dudley, if they weren't at my house. Turning on my heel, I Disapparated.

***

I appeared across the street from my house, in the shade of a large shrubbery bush on the edge of a neighbor's lawn. Before I barged in on Quirrell, perhaps getting someone killed (like Harry, Hermione or Ron, as well as Dudley or even Dumbledore, if he was in there) I was going to do some magical reconnoitering. I cast a very passive detection charm toward the house, checking to see if any additional magical barriers had been set up. There was nothing — and someone had taken down my spells as well; whether it had been done by Dumbledore or Quirrell I couldn't tell from this distance. But it also meant there were no spells set up to detect any other magic I might cast. Perhaps Quirrell/Voldemort thought they wouldn't be there long enough to need any, or perhaps they had just been careless. Either way, I was free to cast other spells without much risk of detection.

Casting _Homenum Revelio_ at the house, I found there were six humans inside, five wizard and one Muggle. I breathed a quick sigh of relief — that meant nobody else was dead yet, other than Mrs. Figg and Vernon. I could see from the patterns of the magical images the spell revealed that one of the wizards, probably an adult (though it could be Ron, who was tall for an 11-year old) was on the floor. What a stroke of luck that would be, if they'd already taken care of Quirrell! I couldn't count on that, however. Everyone else was too closely bunched, from my perspective and distance, to judge where they were relative to one another, but I could tell they were all in the dining room. That gave me my point of entry.

I Disapparated once again, reappearing in the living room, still Disillusioned, in the corner furthest from the dining room. I was careful to keep the sound of my Apparition to a minimum — most wizards, especially younger ones, didn't pay much attention to the sounds their Apparating and Disapparating made. Older, more practiced wizards (Dumbledore, for example) could make their arrivals and departures almost silent. My entrance into the living room of my home should have made no more noise than a sharp exhalation of breath — and I hoped everyone in the dining room was too distracted to notice. I moved toward the doorway of the dining room.

The dining room was a shambles. The table had been thrown against a wall, shattering it into several pieces; the chairs were likewise pushed into corners or broken and strewn around the room. Across the room from me stood Professor Quirrell, holding Dudley against his chest, his wand pressed against the young Muggle's temple. Facing him about six feet away were Hermione and Ron, both wandless. I saw their wands lying in the far corner, away from both them and Quirrell. Of Harry there was no sign. Last, in front of the door, was the prone figure of Albus Dumbledore, his eyes closed, his face turned toward the doorway where I stood. Dumbledore's wand lay on the floor, a couple of feet from his outstretched hand — much too far away for Ron to make a dash for it.

"You little fools thought you were going to outthink _me_?" Quirrell sneered, his voice cold and sharp, very unlike how Harry had described his quavery, stuttering manner to me earlier in the week. "It was a very good trick, I admit, to break in and take the Stone before I could get to it. That oaf Hagrid had a hand in helping you, no doubt!" Raising his voice, Quirrell shouted, "Potter! Stop wasting my precious time! Come out and show yourself, or this precious little Muggle of yours will taste the full fury of the Cruciatus Curse! And then, your other little friends as well!" Smiling cruelly, he pushed Dudley forward, who fell onto the ground, his legs out stiff behind him. It looked like Quirrell had applied a Leg-Locker Curse to Dudley. Quirrell pointed his wand at the boy.

I had counted six people in this room, but only five were visible. I silently cast the Human Revealment Charm once again; this time, as close as I was to the room, I could see a glow where no one was standing — that would be Harry, beneath his Invisibility Cloak. Harry's invisible form moved closer to Quirrell, and suddenly Quirrell's wand hand jerked upward, as if someone had grabbed his wrist.

"Potter!" Quirrell laughed in triumph. "_There_ you are!" Lunging, the older wizard knocked a still-invisible Harry into a wall, pinning him there. But Harry still held Quirrell's wand arm from beneath his Cloak. Ron and Hermione, seeing Quirrell distracted, leaped toward their wands, then ran back to the center of the room, to protect Dudley and Dumbledore. I started into the room, still invisible, to pull Quirrell and Harry apart, but a hand suddenly closed on my ankle. I looked down, surprised, into the eyes of Albus Dumbledore. He mouthed the word _Wait_, and I bent down on one knee to touch his shoulder, so he'd know where I was, but continued to watch the fight closely, in case it went badly for Harry.

Quirrell's greater size and strength was giving him an advantage over the young Gryffindor; at eleven, Harry wasn't a match for the thin, pale man's strength. Laughing, he pulled the last folds of the Invisibility Cloak off of Harry; the thin, gray material slipped from between Quirrell's wrist and Harry's hand.

"AAAAARRGH!" Quirrell screamed suddenly, in agony, trying to wrench himself out of Harry's grasp, and Harry jammed his palm against Quirrell's face. Quirrell screeched again.

"Kill him! KILL HIM, YOU FOOL!" Another high voice screamed, near Harry's ear, startling him. "The other two will know where the Stone is!"

"Master, it burns! IT BURNS!!" Quirrell was screaming, trying to throw Harry off of him. I could see his face reddening and blistering under Harry's touch. Harry put both hands on Quirrell's head, and the man went into paroxysms of pain, screaming and tearing at Harry's arms as Ron and Hermione, pointing their wands at the pair, waited for their opportunity.

Finally Quirrell found the strength to heave Harry off of him, and Harry flew across the room, along with a wildly unraveling strip of cloth; he had grabbed the end of Quirrell's turban, and it was being yanked off his head as Harry crumpled to the floor in front of the dining room window. Snarling, Quirrell brought up his wand, pointing it toward Harry.

"_Stupefy_!" Both Ron and Hermione shouted, and two red bolts slammed into Quirrell's chest, flinging him into the corner, where he collapsed forward onto the floor, face down. Looking down on him, both of them gasped in horror at what they saw.

On the back of Quirrell's head was a pale, inhuman looking face. Its skin chalk white, its eye blood red and filled with hatred. Voldemort!

"Quirrell! QUIRRELL!" he hissed angrily. "You useless lump! Let your failure be a warning to all!" The red eyes fixed on Harry, who had regained his feet and was now staring, horror-struck, at the face on the back of Quirrell's head.

"Mark my words, Potter! Your parents died trying to resist me, begging for mercy. I promise you, you will meet the same fate they did, very soon!" The face seemed to dissolve, leaving the back of Quirrell's head as it had once been. For several seconds the house was completely silent.

Finally, Ron looked at Harry. "So that was You-Know-Who, eh? I guess he wasn't so tough, was he?" Ron was trying to sound airy and joking, but there was fear in his voice as well.

"Tough enough," Harry groaned, touching his side tenderly. "I think he cracked a rib when he threw me across the room." He pointed to the headmaster. "Better see how Professor Dumbledore is." He found his wand, which had fallen from his pocket in the fight, and knelt down next to Dudley. Dudley had covered his head with his arms and was sobbing. "It's okay, Dudley," he said. "You're okay." He tapped Dudley's legs with his wand and they jerked, the Leg-Locker Curse dispelled.

Dudley shook his head, not looking at Harry. "No, I'm _not_ okay. He murdered my dad, Harry! He tortured my mum! And I couldn't do _anything_ to stop him! I'm useless!"

Harry stared at his cousin, shocked by the revelation that his uncle was dead. "Dudley…" he said, slowly. "I'm sorry…"

Dudley shook his head. "A-all these years, Harry, and I never really knew him. I always had better things to do than s-spend time with my father. I know he'd d-do anything for me, but I…just…" he trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut as hot, bitter tears spilled onto the floor.

Hermione, meanwhile, was checking Dumbledore for a pulse when he suddenly rolled onto his side, startling her. "Thank you, Miss Granger, that won't be necessary," he smiled at her. "I am quite alive, thank you." He sat up and took his wand as Ron offered it to him. "And thank you, Mr. Weasley, for retrieving this for me."

I dropped my Disillusionment Charm and asked, "Is everyone okay!?" as if I'd just gotten there.

"Almost everyone," Dumbledore said, looking over at Professor Quirrell. "I fear our Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor is much the worse for wear, however."

Ron walked over and touched the prone form gingerly, feeling for a pulse at the professor's neck. At the same time I silently cast a Human Revealment Charm toward them — there was only one of them living. "I — I think he's dead," Ron said, his voice trembling.

"He is," I said flatly. "Voldemort must've killed him when he left his body."

"Undoubtedly," Dumbledore agreed. "Voldemort shows little mercy to friend or foe alike."

Getting to his feet, Dumbledore looked around at the others: Harry was comforting Dudley, still seated on the floor and now weeping silently; Ron and Hermione, standing next to them, watched them silently. Quirrell's body lay inert on the floor, his face and wrist a mass of blisters. "I daresay that was rather more exciting than our Christmas feast," he murmured.

I had everyone move into the kitchen while I tidied up the dining room, casting _Reparo_ spells at the broken table and chairs, and magically turning the table upright and arranging the chairs around it. The broken china on the floor leapt back into the hutch, reassembling itself, and the broken glass of the hutch doors reformed. I would replace everything else later, as needed, but for now I simply Vanished all the other debris lying around, then had everyone take a seat around the table. "I'll heat up some hot chocolate," I told them. "It'll take just a couple of minutes."

I floated a saucepan out of a cupboard and a bottle of milk from the icebox, filled the saucepan, and set it on the stove with a spoon magically stirring it. And while that was warming up, there was something else I needed to take care of…

"Everyone sit tight," I said, as I strode through the dining room again. "I need to put the house protections back in place." I had made the protections on my house fairly powerful, but not so strong that they couldn't be broken by a competent wizard (say, someone with Dumbledore's talent). It did make me wonder who had broken them, though — Quirrell, with Voldemort's help, or Dumbledore? And if the latter, why would he expose my home (and his students) to detection by Quirrell, knowing (or at least strongly suspecting) that he was working for Voldemort?

In the living room I began reestablishing the protection spells. "_Salvio Hexia__,_ _Protego Totalum__,_ _Repello Muggletum__,_" I canted. "_Cave Inimicum__,_ _Moneo Venificus__,_" and other, more complicated enchantments. It took me more than a minute to put everything back in place.

"Very impressive," a deep voice said, just as I finished, and I turned to see Dumbledore standing in the doorway. "You display a thorough knowledge in many areas of protection charms, Mr. Monroe," he said quietly. "I wondered how much magic Professor Quirrell had to break before he was able to enter here."

"I had wondered which one of you had done that," I said, candidly. "It didn't seem logical that _you_ would have, since I had already invited you in, once."

"True," Dumbledore acknowledged. "And I did remember that, of course." He looked over his shoulder, into the dining room, where the four students sat, silent and subdued, around my newly-repaired dining room table. "I think our young friends could use that hot chocolate fairly soon," he suggested. I nodded and walked back into the kitchen, where the milk was just starting to steam. I gestured at a cupboard and six mugs flew out and arrayed themselves on the counter beside the stove. I tipped a portion of milk into each mug, then cast the Refilling Charm, bringing the hot liquid almost to the brim. With another gesture a spoon flew out of a drawer, and I cast _Geminio_ on it five times, then dropped each spoon into a mug. Finally, a can of chocolate syrup floated out of the pantry and tipped a portion of syrup into each mug, with each spoon swirling the dark liquid into the steaming milk until they were all a rich chocolate color.

I walked into the dining room, the mugs floating after me, and set one in front of everyone, including Dumbledore and myself. Sitting down, I finally allowed myself a sigh of relief. I was glad that no one here had been harmed by Quirrell/Voldemort. We sat there in silence for some time sipping chocolate, each person lost in their own thoughts as to the significance of this day. It hadn't escaped me, though I was probably the only one there who knew that Dumbledore had been playing possum when he was lying on the floor. He'd wanted to see how Harry would handle himself.

Truth to tell, I had as well, though I suppose I was guilty of expecting the situation with Quirrell not to be over until May or June of the following year. It was something of a formula in Rowling's books that most of the problems of each school year were resolved by the end of summer term. I allowed myself a small smile — if this had been the storyline of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's_ Stone, the book would have ended after about 200 pages instead of the roughly 300 it turned out to be!

"So now what?" Hermione asked, unexpected. "What do we do now?"

Startled out of my reverie, I stared blankly at her for several moments. She was looking back and forth between me and Dumbledore, waiting for one of us to reply.

"What do you think we should do now, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore inquired, with an expectant smile and a twinkle in his eye.

"Well…" Hermione looked thoughtful for a minute. Harry and Ron were both staring at her — Ron, as if he had no idea what she might say, as usual. Harry's expression, however, was one of keen interest — he was paying close attention to what she was about to say.

"We should probably notify the Ministry," she finally said, nodding at her own suggestion, as if her saying it out loud had made her sure it was the right course of action. "They'll want to know that You-Know-Who is still alive, and that he's been sighted, if they already knew that."

"Anything else?" Dumbledore prompted her.

"Well," she considered. "We'll have to do something about Professor Quirrell's body — I don't think Mr. Monroe will want to Muggle authorities to find out about it."

"Probably not," I said.

"The Ministry will send someone to collect the body," Dumbledore told her. "I'm sure that, even if Cornelius isn't very interested in finding out more about Voldemort —" Hermione and Ron flinched at the name "— that the Department of Mysteries will be."

"What about — my dad?" Dudley, who'd been silent up to this point, asked, looking up at Dumbledore. "He's — he's dead, too."

Dumbledore lowered his head, in sadness. "I am very sorry for your loss, Dudley — no one your age should lose a parent." Dudley nodded, but didn't otherwise respond.

Dumbledore looked over at me. "What about Petunia Dursley? What has happened to her?"

"She was hurt," I said quietly, "but not too seriously. I called Emergency Services to come help her; they'll also probably find Mrs. Figg. Quirrell killed her, as well."

Dumbledore's head bowed again in sorrow. "So many deaths… it is both the portent and legacy of Dark wizards, that their passing is so rife with death and suffering."

The headmaster then looked up at me. "Mr. Monroe, may I have a word?"

"Certainly," I said.

Dumbledore looked around the table. Ron had leaned over to Dudley and was offering, a bit awkwardly, his condolences for his loss. Harry and Hermione were discussing something as well, their heads close together. The headmaster turned back to me and said, "Perhaps we might step into your study." I nodded and we walked down the hall to the room. I shut the door behind us and sat down in one of the chairs, leaving the more comfortable one for the older wizard. Dumbledore acknowledged this with a gracious nod as he took his seat; he then took out his wand and waved it at the door. I felt the spell flow into it: an Imperturbable Charm.

"A precaution," he said, putting his wand away again. "Young ears can be curious ones, even in the midst of such dreadful occurrences as we have endured today.

"There are a few things we must discuss, however," Dumbledore went on, steepling his fingers before him as he spoke. "While I agree it was quite necessary to render aid to Petunia Dursley, I might have kept the death of Mrs. Figg more private. Even though she was a Squib, she was one of us."

I thought this was a rather callous thing to mention, especially since it seemed like the woman had been virtually exiled to Muggle Britain in order to monitor Harry while he grew up with his aunt, uncle and cousin. But, I decided to give the Hogwarts headmaster the benefit of the doubt — he might be affected by her death more than he was letting on.

"I was mostly concerned with getting Petunia some help," I said. "And it was Mrs. Figg's house, after all — if the Muggle authorities hadn't found her, there would have been an investigation, probably a missing person report, and you would have had people snooping around here for months."

Dumbledore looked skeptical. "It seems that will occur anyway, because the house is now the scene of an unsolved murder. And it will remain unsolved by the Muggle police, though we of course are aware who the perpetrator was.

"Well, be that as it may," he went on, briskly, "An Obliviation Team will be able to sort things out, if necessary. There are a few other items we must discuss, James."

"Such as…?"

"The Philosopher's Stone," Dumbledore said, sounding more calm than he probably was. He must have realized by now that one of the most famous wizarding artifacts of all time, one he had been charged with protecting, had been nicked, almost under his very nose, by an eleven-year old Muggle. "It should be returned to Hogwarts without delay."

"Why?" I asked.

"I beg your pardon?" Dumbledore tone was courteous, but I could hear the astonishment in his voice.

"It seems to me," I said, diffidently, "that the Stone had been rather safer when nobody at Hogwarts really knew where it was."

"Do _you_ know where it is?" Dumbledore asked, in a patient tone that was nevertheless tinged with annoyance.

"No," I said, honestly, "but I suspect Dudley hid it in a place where _no one_ but he could get to it. Conversely, Dudley doesn't have the magical knowledge to know what to do with it — he had the Stone, but didn't know how to use it, and there was no one he could talk to about it, since he's been off to school himself this fall. I believe he was going to try and soften up his cousin Harry with some Christmas presents this holiday, perhaps get him talking about the Stone, to see if there was some way he could use it, but that opportunity hasn't arose."

"Nevertheless," Dumbledore went on, implacably, "it remains a fact that young Mr. Dursley stole the Stone, and is therefore in possession of something that is not his."

"Agreed," I said. "So what do you intend to do with it, Professor, once you get the Stone back?"

Dumbledore looked at me for a long moment. "As it turns out," he said at last, sitting back in his chair and getting more comfortable. "Nicholas and I had discussed that very question earlier this year. He and his wife Perenelle have grown bored these past few years, and have decided to forego immortality in hopes of discovering what lies beyond the final curtain.

"I convinced him that he should let me study the Stone — I had hoped to write a paper on it, for the _Proceedings of the Society of Most Extraordinary Potioneers_ magazine, but recent events have convinced me that doing so would not be in the best interests of the wizarding world. I have decided the Stone should be destroyed."

"That seems like a waste," I commented, "but it is between you and Nicholas Flamel, I suppose. I will convince Dudley to hand it over to me, after his father's funeral."

Dumbledore nodded, studying his steepled fingertips. "There is also the matter of Harry and his schoolmates, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. If, as I suspect, you plan on helping Petunia make the arrangements for her husband's funeral, it would be wise to send them back to Hogwarts for the remainder of the winter break, to avoid any unnecessary complications."

"Actually, I disagree," I said. "Dudley will need help and support to get him through this time, and his mother is unlikely to be strong enough to deal with both her grief and his. Harry, on the other hand, has lost both his parents, so he would be able to offer Dudley the support he needs. As for Ron and Hermione, they are Harry's friends, and I think they will support him in whatever he does. I think they would all like to attend Vernon Dursley's funeral."

It seemed like Dumbledore had wanted to get Harry, Ron and Hermione out of this house, but to my surprise he agreed. "You are correct, James," he nodded. "It is in Harry's best interests to mourn the passing of his uncle. Though I am given to understand they were not always on the best of terms, family is family."

Dumbledore looked at me over his half-moon spectacles, his expression serious. "There is a tradition, begun during Voldemort's first rise to power, that a wizard would attend the funeral of any Muggle killed by him. It will be fitting, therefore, for Harry to attend his uncle's funeral." I nodded solemnly in agreement.

The professor stood. "I must go to the Ministry of Magic, to begin the process of collecting Professor Quirrell's remains. Your home is likely to become quite hectic for the next several hours. I expect you and the others will be interviewed by Ministry Aurors, to determine exactly what happened."

I stood as well. "I'm sure everyone will give their full cooperation, Professor."

Dumbledore gave a slight bow. "I will see you after the funeral, then. Will you wish Harry and the others a Happy Christmas for me?"

"Certainly, sir."

Dumbledore started to turn on his heel, then abruptly stopped. "Ah, where are my manners?" he said, ruefully. "May I have your permission to Apparate from your study?"

"Of course. Have a safe journey, Professor." Dumbledore nodded again, then spun on his heel and was gone.

***

Vernon Dursley's funeral was held a few days later, on a bitterly cold, gray day in a West London mortuary. Petunia was able to attend; her injuries, though numerous, were mostly superficial and were on the mend with ointments and bandages. As expected, she was devastated by the loss, and I took care of most of the details for her, arranging for the viewing of the body, the services, and the burial plot in a small cemetery north of Little Whinging.

The smallest viewing room of the mortuary was almost full. There were several people from Grunnings, the firm where Vernon had worked as a director, and a few people from his neighborhood in Little Whinging. I suspected a number of people had come just to hear about how he might have died, but no one asked me about it directly, which was fortunate — I was in no mood to sensationalize or diminish his death.

Dudley was there, of course, as well as Harry, Ron and Hermione, all dressed in black. Dudley sat stiffly next to his mother, with no tears in his eyes now. Harry, next to him, looked properly subdued and solemn as well, though predictably, his hair refused to cooperate, sticking out in odd places. Ron and Hermione sat quietly by his side.

In the row behind them sat Vernon's sister Marge, and an older, white-haired gentleman who had signed the register as "Colonel Neville Fubster," whom I recalled from the series as a neighbor of Marge's who looked after her bulldogs when she visited Vernon and Petunia. Apparently he'd rated coming along with himself Marge for this occasion. There was no one present from Petunia's side of the family, other than Harry, with both of her parents being dead and her and Lily their only children.

I also noticed a few people scattered along the back of the room who were dressed a bit — well, _odd_ would be the most complimentary word that fit them. I knew who they were, of course: surviving members of the old Order of the Phoenix, the organization Dumbledore had started in the 1970's to fight against Voldemort's Death Eaters. Dumbledore himself was there: an old, white-haired gentleman wearing half-moon spectacles and dressed in what looked like a black cassock — perhaps his attempt at being inconspicuous.

The directory of the mortuary brought the services to order, then spoke briefly about Vernon Dursley's life — growing up in Little Whinging with his parents, going to Smeltings as a boy, then to university where he majored in business administration and accountancy, and landing a job at a small tax firm, where he met a young, blonde woman fresh out of secretary school named Petunia Evans. They discovered they both shared the same likes and dislikes — they both liked to appear proper and orderly, thank you very much, and didn't associate much with people who didn't. Romance blossomed, and they began dating. This went on for some time, of course — it would not be proper to rush into anything too soon.

Then Vernon was offered a position at Grunnings, a firm specializing in drills, and took it, advancing quickly through the company due to his no-nonsense, take-charge attitude (though some might have called him conniving and ruthless, I added to myself); by the time he proposed to Petunia he had been made a director in the firm. They were married in a very proper ceremony, of course, and Vernon purchased a nice little house on Privet Drive. With Petunia's announcement, some time later, that she was expecting a baby, the Dursleys had become a very happy and proper family.

With this, the mortuary director invited those attending the service to come up and say a few words about Vernon Dursley. People in the rows looked around, some craning their necks to see if anyone was going to get up and speak, but no one moved to do so. Finally, one person stood and slowly made his way to the front of the room, standing beside the podium where the director had stood; it was taller than he was.

"Vernon Dursley was my uncle," Harry began, slowly, looking around the room at the people there. Some of them were staring at him in astonishment, as if they'd never heard of him before today; others, like Vernon's sister, Marge, glared at him through narrowed eyes. Aunt Petunia had not looked up when he began talking, but Dudley was smiling at him, as were Ron and Hermione. And so was I.

"He and my Aunt Petunia took me in when I was just a baby. My mum and dad were killed by — killed in a car wreck." I heard Aunt Marge snort. Harry must have, too, for he spared her a short glance before he went on. "He and my aunt gave me a home when I had nothing else — I might have gone to an orphanage if not for them," he said, looking at Marge.

"Many of you have known my uncle for a long time, so you know what he's like," Harry continued. "But I know him as the person that put a roof over my head and food on my plate, and gave me a place to sleep, and family to be with." He nodded toward Dudley and Petunia.

"I feel saddened by his passing, because I know how much Aunt Petunia will miss him." As if on cue, Petunia sobbed, softly. "And I know how much his son Dudley, my cousin, will miss him as well. I hope all of you will remember him as well, for what he was." Harry sat back down. The room was filled with murmurs praising Harry's sentiments. Harry looked back at me and I gave him a reassuring smile and nod.

"Out of my way," Marge suddenly barked at Colonel Fubster, who slid out of the row, letting her by. Marge stalked to the front of the room, peering squinty-eyed at the people in the room, as if sorting out who ought to be there and who ought not. Like her late brother, Marge Dursley was large and beefy, and in her present state, almost as purpled-faced. "So, none of the lot of you have anything to say about Vernon, except for _this_ little snot?" She gestured dismissively at Harry. The room and gone deathly silent, except for her booming voice.

"Well let me tell you a few things about Vernon Dursley," she growled, ignoring Petunia, who had looked up in shock when she realized who had begun speaking and was shaking her head, trying ineffectually to get Marge to stop.

"Vernon was a saint, an absolute _saint_, to take this little whelp into his home!" Marge pointed an accusing finger at Harry, who'd put a hand unobtrusively inside his jacket. "His parents were no-account good-for-nothings, who died in a car crash, probably drunk and —" she stopped abruptly, looking around as if confused. "Wha' t'was I say-eng? Sum-ging ablate Vergun?" She took an uncertain step forward, but her legs seemed to move of their own accord and she toppled over, onto her side. Colonel Fubster ran forward, along with a few other men seated near the front, and after some heaving got Marge back on her feet. They helped her back to the row behind Petunia and Dudley, as everyone looked on frank curiosity. The mortuary director hurriedly ended the service, advising those going to the cemetery for the burial to follow the company's hearse, which would be leaving shortly.

Harry followed Petunia and Dudley out of the mortuary, and walked over to where the car that would be driving them to the cemetery would pull up, but I caught up with him before he reached them. "Harry, you don't need to go to the cemetery if you don't want to," I told him. "You've already done much more for the man than any of us would have expected."

"I was thinking of Dudley, and Aunt Petunia," Harry said, quietly, looking over at his cousin, who was half-supporting his mother as they waited for the mortuary's car. "It's been a lot harder for them than for me."

"But not that easy for you, really," I pointed out. "It's not easy losing someone you've known for a long time."

Harry managed a shrug. "It might've been harder," he said, "if he'd treated me with a bit more decency than he did. Even Marge's dogs got better treatment than I have. In fact," Harry went on, resentment building in his voice. "Vernon might be alive today if he hadn't been so callous and uncaring toward me; I might've wanted to spend Christmas day with him and Aunt Petunia and Dudley, instead of with Ron and Hermione, at your house!" I noticed Petunia staring in our direction.

"Anyway," I said, ignoring Harry's angry words, "I'm going to the burial. You, Ron and Hermione can ride along with me, if you'd like to go."

But Harry shook his head. "Nah, you're right, Uncle Jimmy. They don't need us there — especially if it upsets Auntie Marge," he added, sarcastically. "We'll take the Knight Bus back to your house after the funeral procession leaves." Without waiting for my reply, Harry turned and walked back to where Ron and Hermione were waiting for him.

***

After the burial ceremony I drove Petunia and Dudley back to Privet Drive. Petunia sat stiffly in the front seat, her eyes on her knees, saying nothing. Dudley was quiet, too, but I could feel his eyes constantly on me as I drove back to Little Whinging, as if he had something to say and wanted to get my attention. With Petunia in the car, however, I had no intention of starting up a conversation with him.

I pulled into the driveway of number four, Privet Drive, then walked around to the other side to open the door for Petunia. She got out, nodding once to me, then walked to the front door, fumbling in her purse for some time before finding the key to her house. Dudley took the key from her so he could unlock the door.

As he did so, she turned in my direction, though not quite looking at me. "Thank you," she said, dully, "for taking care of things. Dudley," she continued, as he opened the door for her. "I'm going to go lay down for a while. I'll make us dinner in a few hours." It was just lunchtime; the funeral and burial had been in the morning, but it seemed like Petunia was in a daze and didn't realize what time it was.

"Yes, Mum," Dudley said, not arguing with her. He glanced at me and I nodded reassuringly.

"If it's okay," I suggested, "I can take Dudley for some lunch. I can pick you up something as well, if you like, Petunia."

She shook her head. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Monroe. But I'm not very hungry right now. She started to open her purse. "Dudley, if you need some money for lunch —"

"It's fine," I said, reaching over and closing her purse again. "I have it covered."

Petunia nodded and walked slowly in the house. Dudley and I drove to the nearby hamburger place he liked and ordered meals. It seemed like he'd been bursting to talk on the way home, but now he ate his hamburger in silence, barely looking at me.

I waited him out, letting him decide when he was going to open up the conversation. I still had one item to discuss with him, that being the disposition of the Philosopher's Stone. If I made an educated guess, I'd say that Dudley had hidden the Stone somewhere where only he could get to it using the magical gloves and glasses I gave him. He obviously stole it from Hagrid when the half-giant dropped him and Harry off at home after their trip to Diagon Alley, back on Harry's eleventh birthday. It must've taken some skill to reach into Hagrid's pocket, removing the Stone from the brown paper it was wrapped in and substituting a piece of concrete.

I can't exactly say I was proud of Dudley — what he'd done was stealing, encouraged by the advantage the gloves and glasses gave him. Dudley having the Stone was also one of the reasons his father was dead, since Quirrell came to Little Whinging with the assumption that _Harry_ had taken the Stone before leaving Hogwarts during Christmas break. It _was_ interesting, however, to see Dudley involved in something more than eating, watching television, and bullying younger children.

Finally, Dudley spoke up. "Are Harry and the others going back to that school?" he asked, without looking at me, as he bit into his final cheeseburger.

"Professor Dumbledore wanted them to," I told him. "But I suggested he let them stay here, so they could go to the funeral service with you and your mother."

"Huh," Dudley grunted. "Didn't think Harry'd want to, after all the crap Dad put him through in the last ten years."

"He probably didn't," I agreed, coldly. "Your dad could have been a lot better guardian for Harry than he was."

"Maybe," Dudley shrugged. "But Harry could have been better, too."

"Really?" I asked, interested to hear what Dudley thought. "How so?"

"Harry could've done a lot more stuff to help us, using his —" Dudley looked around to see if anyone was listening, and lowered his voice to nearly a whisper "— uh, you know — his _magic_."

"Students aren't supposed to do magic out of school," I said, in a normal voice. I had already put a Ring of Silence around us.

Dudley snorted. "How's he been practicing those spells in your house, then?" he asked, grinning at apparently having caught me in a mistake.

I wondered if he'd noticed that detail. "My house might be shielded against the spells the Ministry of Magic uses to detect underage wizards using their magic," I replied. It _wasn't_ shielded, of course, but I wasn't going to give that bit of information away to Dudley at the moment.

"Lucky," Dudley muttered. "I can't believe how lucky Harry is. Ron and Hermione, too! They've all got these fantastic powers, they can do anything they want — and all I've got are a pair of magical gloves and glasses."

"And the Philosopher's Stone," I added, deadpan.

Dudley blanched, then tried to recover. "What are you talking about?"

"I know you took the Stone," I said, quietly. "You stole it right out of Hagrid's coat, the day he took you and Harry home from Diagon Alley, didn't you?"

Dudley was looking at me defiantly, ready to deny he even knew what the Stone was. I looked straight at him and said, "Dudley, I _know_ you took it. I can see it in your eyes. I also know you've been stealing stuff from places around Little Whinging since you got those gloves. Not a very nice way to repay someone who's given you such a valuable gift."

"What do you care?" Dudley retorted, stung by my words but still defending himself. "You're a powerful wizard!" He stopped abruptly, looking around as if he expected people to be staring at us, but no one in the restaurant had heard a thing. Seeing no one looking our way, he went on. "You can have anything you want, take anything you want!"

"That doesn't mean I'm _going_ to take anything I want," I snapped. "I'm a wizard, not a thief!"

"Oh, yeah?" Dudley looked highly amused. "You think _Harry's_ never taken anything? He used to sneak down at night and steal stuff out of the kitchen! I used to find stuff from all over the house in his room! You can't tell me wizards don't steal!"

I knew that some did, of course; being a wizard was no guarantee of having a flawless character. "I suppose you think you could do better?" I said with a sneer.

"If I was a wizard? You bet I could!" Dudley slapped his hand on the table for emphasis. "If I could do the kinds of things you and Harry can do, I'd never need to steal again!"

"Oh, really?" It was my turn to be amused. But then — I caught my breath as I considered something outrageous. Could being a wizard really turn Dudley around? Indeed, people had changed their lives over lesser revelations. "Are you willing to put that to the test, Dudley?"

He gave me an annoyed, quizzical look. "What d'you mean — a test? You an' Harry have been telling me all this time that I _can't_ do magic 'cause I'm not a wizard! Are you saying that's all been a lie?"

"No, it's true," I said. "You have to be a wizard to do magic." Getting up from our table, I pointed toward the door. "Come on, let's go. We can continue this in the car." We got in and I began the drive home. "What I mean," I said, after we were on our way, "is that there's a way to make you a wizard."

Dudley just stared at me. Then, "_Why the hell haven't you told me that before_?!" he yelled. "You _know_ I want to be a wizard!"

"I know," I replied calmly. "But until now there was no way to actually perform the spell, because of what it requires to effect the transfiguration from Muggle to wizard."

"And what's _that_?"

"The Philosopher's Stone."

Ironically, the Stone really _could_ be used to transform a Muggle into a wizard, by brewing it into a potion made with _Elixir Vitae_ (the Elixir of Life), asphodel root, dragon's heart, fluxweed, runespoor eggs, powdered unicorn horn. However, this recipe was not in any potion-making book ever written — no wizard would have thought to invent such a potion, because brewing it would mean the destruction of the Philosopher's Stone, which only one wizard, Nicholas Flamel, had managed to create in the past 650 years. Just creating the Philosopher's Stone was hard enough — no wizard was then going to turn around and use it to make a Muggle into a wizard!

I was no ordinary wizard, however.

Once back at Privet Drive, Dudley led me into the garage, over to where a dusty, long-unused workbench stood. "It's under here," he said, excitement in his voice, as he hurriedly put on his Shadow Gloves and X-Ray Spectacles. "I made a hollow spot in the concrete, a few feet down, to keep the Stone in." He slid his pudgy torso under the workbench, then pushed his arm into the concrete, coming up a few moments later with a blood-red stone in his gloved hand.

Coming out from under the workbench, he held it out in front of himself, but as I reached for it, he pulled it away. "How do I know you'll really make me into a wizard?" he asked, suspicion in his voice.

"How do I know you'll stop stealing stuff?" I countered. Dudley made a _I-don't-know_ gesture and said nothing. "You know I've always played it straight with you, don't you?" I asked him.

"I suppose…" Dudley agreed, slowly.

"If this doesn't work," I told him, "you can tell Professor Dumbledore that _I_ was the one who stole the Stone from Hagrid, then made you think you did."

"But I still won't have the Stone, then!" Dudley protested.

"You weren't going to get to keep it, Dudley," I said, laughing. "Dumbledore would probably come and take this house apart, brick by brick, to find it. This way, you get what you want — to be a wizard, and Dumbledore gets what he wants — to be rid of the Stone."

"Why would _he_ want to get rid of the Stone?" Dudley asked, shocked. "He's a wizard! Why wouldn't he want to keep it and make himself rich and immortal?!"

"That's a long story, and we don't have time for it now," I said, holding out my hand. "So do we have a deal?"

Dudley stared at the Stone for several moments, then nodded and dropped it into my hand.

"Okay," I said. "Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to go home and begin brewing the potion. It's going to take me two or three hours to find the ingredients and prepare them. At six p.m., come out to the garage and I'll in there waiting for you with the potion to drink. After that, you should go to bed — you won't feel well for the next day or so.

"Within about two days you'll feel a bit better, and you'll be able to get around okay. Come over here and we'll test to see how much ability you have."

"What about Harry and his friends?" Dudley remembered. "Won't they be suspicious about me coming over so soon after my father's death?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. "They'll think you're reaching out to talk to them. And you will, because you'll need all the help you can get — you're already six months behind on your magical studies!"

Dudley smirked, and I continued. "Two things: First, you're going to have to give up the Shadow Gloves and X-Ray Spectacles." He looked outraged, but— "I only gave you those as an alternative to using magic directly—you won't need them any more.

"I'll have a wand waiting for you, when you get there. Wizards usually buy their own, but I don't think Mr. Ollivander is up to the excitement of having a Muggle-turned-wizard show up in his shop to buy a new wand. Is it a deal?" I held out my hand.

Dudley looked at the Philosopher's Stone in his hand. I knew he was struggling whether to trust me — he had a problem believing _anyone_ would willingly destroy the Philosopher's Stone, a source of wealth and eternal life, to do something beneficial for someone like him. I let him figure it out for himself: I had given him magical gifts, in the hope that he would recognize the importance of being responsible, and by and large he'd failed to live up to that responsibility.

Now, however, with the specific goal that making him a wizard would turn him around, I hoped Dudley would straighten up and start acting properly — now especially, since he would become responsible for taking care of his mum. Dudley looked at me for a long moment, then nodded once and placed the Stone in my hand.

"I'll be back by six," I said. "Make sure your mother's okay before you come out to the garage." I got in my car and drove back to my house.

Down in the library I found Harry, Ron and Hermione all occupied. Hermione was reading (of course) while Harry and Ron were engaged in a game of wizard chess. Harry looked up as I reached the bottom of the stairs. "Hi, Uncle Jimmy," he said, and the others looked up to see me as well. "Everything okay?"

"Yes," I said. "Dudley and his mother are back home, he and I just got back from lunch. Have you eaten yet?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "We had the Knight Bus drop us off at the Leaky Cauldron for lunch, then we came home, about an hour ago."

"Good," I said. "I'm going to be in the lab for a while, brewing a potion."

"Oh!" Hermione sat up quickly. "May we watch, please?"

_Dammit_. "Well, I'd rather do this alone," I said, shaking my head. "It's going to take me a few hours of pretty intense work, and I'm on a tight schedule."

"What kind of potion are you brewing?" Harry asked, curiously.

"Well —" I didn't know what Harry might do if I told him I was brewing a potion from the Philosopher's Stone that would turn his cousin into a wizard, so — "It's an experiment, actually, to see if a theory of mine will work." Which was technically true — I'd never actually brewed this potion before (nobody had, in fact — I'd just come up with it earlier today). "I'll let you know if it works." Because they'd certainly find out if it did! I disappeared into my lab.

It took a few hours to brew the potion. I found it interesting that the Philosopher's Stone could be used to create _Elixir Vitae_, leaving the Stone unchanged, but adding the other ingredients to that substance created a potion that could dissolve the Stone. I wrote the recipe down as I created the potion — I was pretty sure I would need it again at some point, if only to show Dumbledore how Dudley had become a wizard.

Finally, a little before six p.m., the potion had finished simmering and I poured it into a crystal phial and put a stopper in it. It was a bright red, just as the Stone had been, and I was anxious to get it to Dudley. I checked the library; Harry and the others had gone upstairs. I decided not to risk running into them on the way out and Apparated to Privet Drive, appearing near the door to the garage of number four. I slipped into the garage to wait for Dudley.

It was several minutes after six before he appeared, just as I was about to check the house to see if he was there. "You're late," I said, lighting my wand as he was carefully closing the door.

He jumped, but said only, "I was talking with Mum, she woke up just a while ago. Have you got the potion?"

I held up the crystal phial in my other hand, but drew it back as he reached for it. "First, I'll have the Shadow Gloves and the X-Ray Glasses." Dudley reached into a pocket and pulled out the items. I let go of my wand and it hung suspended in the air, shining light down on us. I took the gloves and glasses and passed Dudley the phial. Dudley stared in fascination at the potion.

"What do I do with it?" he whispered. "Just drink it?"

"Yes," I said. "It will probably make you feel strange for a day or so, while it takes effect. Your mother may think you've been poisoned, but you can tell her it's just a stomach-ache. It should be over by the end of the second day. If not, have her give me a call and I'll be over to check on you."

Dudley nodded and started to leave, but I said, "You may want to drink that now, so you don't have to explain to your mum what's in the crystal vial."

Dudley looked at me, then at the phial. Nodding, he unstoppered it and tipped the bottle back. The contents emptied, and I saw him swallow. He put the stopper back and handed me the empty phial, grunting at the taste, his mouth tightly closed. He looked almost ready to puke.

"Try not to throw up," I said. "There's not going to be any more of that, you know." Dudley nodded then, wordlessly, hand across his mouth, he shuffled out the door and back into the house. I watched him until the door closed, then Apparated back to my lab. I would check back with him in a couple of days if I didn't hear from him by then.

I spent the next couple of days being the gracious host to Harry, Ron and Hermione and they enjoyed their Christmas holiday and talked about their suspicions about Quirrell and Voldemort. Harry, of course, had suspected him for almost the entire fall term, and Hermione since Harry and Ron told her about the events in the third-floor corridor over Hallowe'en. Ron pretty much went along with whatever Harry thought.

I maintained my silence about what I'd been doing in my lab, even though they were all curious to know what I was up to, saying only that the experiment was still ongoing. By the third day, however, with still no appearance and no word from Dudley, I found time later that day, while Harry and the others were occupied with their activities, to jump over to Privet Drive.

I knocked on the door and Petunia answered. She did not look well: her eyes looked sunken and her color, already pale even when she was well, was even whiter. "Hello, Mr. Monroe," she said, her voice trembling but otherwise dull. "What do you want?"

"Are you and Dudley all right?" I asked, concerned. "You don't look well."

"We've been feeling unwell for the past few days," she said, though she didn't step back to let me in the house."

"May I come in and see how Dudley is?" I asked, but Petunia shook her head.

"We'll be all right," she said, shortly. "No need to concern yourself about us, Mr. Monroe." She gave me a piercing look. "Is the Potter boy still in your home?"

"Yes," I said, a bit surprised she knew. "How did you know that?"

"Diddy mentioned after Vernon's funeral that he was staying there," she said, sounding more and more like normal — that is, petty and intolerant of others. "If that's where he prefers to stay, then you're welcome to him, and thank you very much. Now, goodbye." And she closed the door.

I stood there for several moments, digesting her change of attitude. Petunia had been very frail since her release from the hospital, just before her late husband's funeral. She had been more than willing to allow me to help her with the details of Vernon's services and burial. Now, with that done, she seemed to have reverted back to her old, unpleasant self. I sighed, but then shrugged. _It is what it is_, I thought to myself. _She can be however she wants — I don't have to deal with it_. I decided to let Dudley contact me, if he wanted — I certainly wasn't going to subject myself to Petunia Dursley if she didn't want me around. In any event, Dudley was going to need my help once his magical ability started to surface — he would need a wand, as well as other equipment and clothing, if he was going to attend Hogwarts. Turning on my heel, I Apparated back to my house.

***

The holidays finally came to an end early in January, and I drove Harry, Ron and Hermione to King's Cross. I'd never heard back from Dudley. I was curious why he'd never come over to talk to me, and I decided I would check it out after I got Harry and his friends on the Express back to Hogwarts. We passed through the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten, to Platform 9¾ along with a gaggle of other students making their way back to the magical school.

"I'll be curious how Professor Dumbledore deals with Quirrell's death," I said as I shook Ron's hand goodbye. "I wonder if Gil— er, if any other teachers are available to teach the class."

"I hope he finds somebody good," Ron replied. "Quirrell was a git, if you ask me — I thought that before I even knew he was hanging about with, eh, You-Know-Who. Thanks for letting us stay with you, Mr. Monroe."

"Yes, it was quite interesting to see your library, sir," Hermione said as we shook hands next. "I hope to come back and see it again some time."

"I'm sure that can be arranged," I said with a smile, looking at Harry. He quirked an eyebrow at me but said nothing.

"Well, Harry," I said, shaking his hand last. "It was good to see you again. If you need anything before school lets out in June, just let me know."

"I will, Uncle Jimmy," Harry smiled momentarily, then looked suddenly serious. "Oh — I almost forgot to ask, how is Dudley doing since the funeral?"

"Okay, I guess," I said, giving a small shrug. "I went over to talk to him a few days ago and Petunia gave me the cold shoulder. He was a bit under the weather — I'm going to go over after you leave and see how he's doing."

There was a sudden flash of red above us, and Harry, Ron and Hermione all flinched in surprise. I looked up and saw an envelope floating down toward me.

"What was _that_?" Ron said loudly, as other students nearby began whispering and pointing toward us. I caught the envelope and saw it was addressed to me, in script I recognized as Dumbledore's handwriting. I broke the thin wax seal and pulled out a single sheet of parchment and a red ticket for the Hogwarts Express.

On the parchment was a note from Dumbledore.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Monroe,_

_I trust this letter finds you well. I hope Fawkes has brought this to you before the Hogwarts Express has departed King's Cross — if not, I beg your indulgence in coming to Hogwarts at your earliest convenience._

_Certain matters have come to light which require a face-to-face meeting between us. I would like to do so before the winter term begins, my reason for the unusual method of delivery. Fawkes can be quite abrupt, but you will understand my impatience once we meet._

_I will await your arrival with pleasant anticipation of a fruitful meeting._

_Your servant_

_Albus Dumbledore_

* * *

"What's it about?" Harry asked, as I read the note. Ron and Hermione watched with curious interest as well.

"It appears Professor Dumbledore wants a meeting with me," I said at last. I held up the ticket. "He was even good enough to offer me a ride to get there," I chuckled. I supposed Dumbledore was being a bit facetious — he and I both knew I could be there moments after reading the letter, if necessary.

"Blimey," Ron said, thoughtlessly. "Doesn't he realize you could Apparate there?"

"Yes, Ronald," Hermione said, exasperated. "We all realize that — well, _most_ of us do, at least." Ron spared her only an annoyed glance.

"So, what are you going to do?" Harry asked me.

I smiled as I slipped the letter into the inside pocket of my jacket, beneath my overcoat. "It looks like I'm going on a relaxing train ride with the three of you," I said. We found an empty compartment and chatted about various school activities — Harry and Ron talked about Quidditch and Harry's first game, against Slytherin and how Snape had tried to jinx Harry's broom.

"Except," Harry pointed out, "Quirrell was in the stands as well. It was probably _him_ jinxing my broom, not Snape."

"But Harry, when I broke Snape's concentration you were able to fly again!" Hermione protested.

"But you _did_ run over Quirrell on your way to stop Snape," Ron pointed out. "I remember him falling forward as you ran past him."

Hermione frowned. "I don't remember that, I was in such a hurry to get to Snape! Oh, poor Professor Quirrell!"

"Hermione!" Ron said, outraged. "He was trying to bloody _kill_ Harry, if it was him jinxing the broom!"

"I mean, it's unfortunate that he was taken over by You-Know-Who, Ronald," Hermione hastily explained.

When the food trolley came round I bought everyone some sweets, and a pumpkin pasty for myself. After the sweets were polished off Harry and Ron decided to go exploring, while Hermione and I stayed and chatted about her studies and being a Ravenclaw in general.

"I thought it was interesting that, while the other Houses use passwords to get into our common rooms, the Ravenclaw entrance asks a question, which the student has to answer correctly to obtain entrance," Hermione told me.

"What happens if you're a first year and the entrance asks you a seventh-year question?" I asked, teasing her a bit.

She took it seriously. "I think the door knows what level you are, and asks a question appropriate to your year," she replied.

"That's pretty impressive magic," I commented, and she nodded in agreement.

"So far, however," she said, a measure of pride in her voice, "it hasn't asked a question I haven't been able to answer, no matter who's in the group waiting to get in. It tends to ask questions at the level of the oldest student present."

"Hmm," I mused. "I wonder if the Sorting Hat wanted to put Harry in Ravenclaw."

Hermione looked toward the door of the compartment, then leaned forward and in a lowered voice said, "Harry told me what it said to him, just the other day. I'd asked him that very question, since I found out he's rather more intelligent than he's been letting on, these past few months. He said it told him he could go into any of Gryffindor, Slytherin, or Ravenclaw. It told him that Slytherin could help him be great, to prove himself to everyone, and that with his intelligence, Ravenclaw would be an almost perfect fit."

"So why did he pick Gryffindor, do you think?" I asked. "Because of Ron and his brothers?"

She shrugged slightly. "Maybe. He didn't want to be in Slytherin because of Draco Malfoy, and because You-Know-Who was in Slytherin." She reddened slightly. "He also told me that he was a bit put off by _me_ when we first met! I couldn't believe that, I thought I'd been perfectly fine to him when we met — I think he was just going along with what Ronald thought, that I was a bossy know-it-all."

"But you're not really bossy at all, right?" I smiled.

She looked at me for a moment, wide-eyed, then suddenly giggled. "Well, it's true I do try to tell everyone what they ought to do," she admitted. "I guess I've been that way ever since primary school. My teacher would tell my parents, 'Hermione is a very good student, but she keeps trying to run the class!' It's kind of funny because neither of my parents are like that, they're both very intelligent people but they don't like to boss people around. Even at their practice they have an office manager who runs the place for them."

"Do you wish Harry had gone into Ravenclaw?" I asked.

"Sometimes," she said, nodding. "It would be nice to see him in the Common Room instead of just at lunch in the Great Hall, or in the Library evenings before we have to go back to our own areas. I wish —"

Her comment was cut off, however, as Harry and Ron suddenly slid through the door and dropped into seats next to Hermione and me. "That was weird," Ron said, looking at Harry.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, curiously.

"There's a compartment up near the front," Ron replied. "When we looked inside there were two people in there, both dressed in long, black overcoats and wearing hoods. We couldn't see their faces, the hoods were pulled so far forward."

Harry was looking at me. "One was small and thin, the other was pretty big, for a kid — I thought for a minute it was Malfoy and either Crabbe or Goyle, but I couldn't tell. We leaned in the door to say hello, but they wouldn't talk to us."

"I thought they were dementors at first," Ron said, sounding uneasy. "Their hands were dark and rough-looking. Except, Harry pointed out they were just wearing gloves," he finished, sheepishly.

Hermione glanced out the window. "It's getting late in the day. We should be arriving at Hogsmeade Station before long. A few minutes later the train began slowing, and the three students put on their robes, then their coats and gloves. When the train stopped at the small station's platform, we debarked along with the other students and began walking up the road toward the gates. There were no carriages waiting to drive students to the school.

It was dusk by the time we reached the gates. They were open; Hagrid had left them so, obviously, for those returning from the break. As we entered the gates I saw the two hooded figures Harry and Ron had mentioned earlier, entering the school. They were well-ahead of the other students, who were giving them a wide berth. Rather mysterious, I thought — but such was the nature of some people in the Wizarding world.

Inside the Entrance Hall was an older man, hunched over, with thinning gray hair, who kept students moving along as they came inside and greeted other arrivals and those who'd stayed. This would be Mr. Filch, of course. "Come on, come on, don't dawdle!" he growled, in his raspy voice. "There's dinner being served in the Great Hall, for those who're hungry. Though I don't know why Dumbledore bothers, you're all ungrateful laggards!"

When he saw me, he beckoned toward me imperiously, and I walked over to see what the old caretaker wanted. "Hello, Mr. Filch," I said, to distract and confuse him. "What can I do for you?"

"Eh? You know me, then?" the old man wheezed, one eye twitching as he stared at me. He saw Harry, Ron and Hermione watching as I walked up to him, and nodded knowingly. "Ah, I see my reputation has preceded me." He jerked a thumb toward the grand staircase behind him. "You'll be Mr. Monroe — the Headmaster wants a word wit' you."

"How do I get to his office?" I asked, not willing to give Filch an inch of leeway. I had already been to Dumbledore's office once before, but I didn't expect Filch to know that.

Filch reached in a pocket and pulled out a small piece of parchment. "The Headmaster said to give you this — it'll lead you there."

I took the parchment then turned without another word and walked back to Harry and the others, who were talking with Fred and George; they had stayed at Hogwarts over the holidays. "Hello, Fred and George," I said, shaking each of their hands.

"Hello, Mr. Monroe!" Fred said. "Glad to see you brought the prodigals back before they all strangled each other."

"Sorry about your uncle, Harry," George added, sounding somber.

"Thanks," Harry said, quietly. "I was more worried about my cousin, Dudley, since it was his father — but I haven't heard anything from him since the funeral." He turned to me. "Will you let me know what's been happening with him and Aunt Petunia, Uncle Jimmy, when you find out?"

"I will," I said. "I'm going up to see Dumbledore now, then I'll head back, to talk to Dudley and his mum."

I walked up the grand staircase, then followed the instructions to the second floor, to a certain corridor in which stood a single pale, stone gargoyle, guarding what seemed like a rather unremarkable section of wall. At the bottom of the parchment I held, however, were the words "pumpkin pasty," which I gathered was the password to enter Dumbledore's office. I spoke the phrase and the gargoyle leapt aside; riding the spiral stone staircase to its top, I stood once again before the highly polished oaken doors of Dumbledore's office. I knocked, and Dumbledore's voice replied, "Enter."

Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk. This time, he wasn't writing anything; he stood, welcoming me, and bade me take the chair placed in front of his desk.

"What have I done now?" I asked, smiling.

Dumbledore smiled as well. "This time, Mr. Monroe, I have an interesting proposition for you. You are, of course, aware that the school now lacks a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

"Of course," I said, astonished at the question and what it implied. "But why ask _me_ if I want the job? I never even _attended_ Hogwarts! Besides, I doubt if I have the wherewithal to teach!"

"You are being overly modest, Mr. Monroe," Dumbledore gently disagreed with me. "I know you have a keen interest in many areas of magic. The spells you cast re-establishing protection over your home were sharp, crisp and well-defined. Further, having observed Harry for the past several months, I believe I can say without reservation that you did an excellent job of teaching him spellwork, even before he began attending school."

"Harry is largely self-taught," I demurred. "I simply offered guidance."

Dumbledore spread his hands in a _my-point-exactly_ gesture. "Is that not the role of every good teacher?" he asked.

I stopped protesting and considered the offer seriously. There were some advantages to teaching at Hogwarts — for one thing, I'd have more access to Harry, and be where a lot of the action tended to take place, now that he was attending school. I could also do a better job teaching than either Quirrell or his supposed replacement, Gilderoy Lockhart. Whether I could teach as well as Remus Lupin, though, might be a subject for debate.

The disadvantages? Well, I'd be working for Dumbledore, which might not be as bad as I imagined, given the latitude he seemed to allow his teachers. Then there was Snape — I'd have to get along with him, more or less. And McGonagall, too, since she was the deputy headmistress.

However, Dumbledore was in a bit of a bind right now — he had no DADA teacher, the day before classes resumed! If I played my cards right, I could have a dream job here! "You have to dismiss my Unbreakable Vow not to initiate contact with Harry," I told him. "I couldn't possibly teach him if I'm not allowed to start a conversation with him."

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore nodded, amiably. "I had already forgotten about it, really."

_Yeah, right_, I thought. "There's also the matter of my salary," I went on, "and the contract for my services."

"The standard salary is ten thousand Galleons per school year," Dumbledore replied crisply. "The contract period is from September first through June 30th. Of course, in this case we would revise the contract for services going forward from today to the end of June. As an incentive, I offer the entire year's salary, the extra being a 'signing bonus,' I believe it's called."

"Very generous," I commented. "Perhaps overly so. In the interest of fairness I will suggest a salary of five thousand Galleons for the revised contract period, plus a one thousand Galleon signing bonus."

"Done," Dumbledore said, slapping his palm on the top of his desk. "Any other questions, Mr. Monroe?"

"What are the other details of the contract?" I asked. "Boarding? Health care?"

Dumbledore seemed almost amused. "Personal quarters are provided to all Hogwarts staff. Medical care is available from the infirmary. If the need arises you will be taken to St. Mungo's for additional care; Hogwarts will pay for any required expenses, of course. If you require permanent hospitalization, the teaching contract is terminated, but your expenses will be covered. I am proud to say," Dumbledore added, "that no Hogwarts teacher has suffered permanent disability since I took over as Headmaster."

"How many have died since you took over?" I asked, with a small smile.

Dumbledore raised a cautionary finger. "Ah, that's not quite the same thing, is it, James? Well, I can think of at least one, of course."

"Very droll," I said. I wasn't really worried about it, naturally. "I think we have a deal, Headmaster," I said, offering him my hand. We shook hands, then both of us took out our wands. I tapped his hand, saying "_Absolvo Votus Infragilus_," and it glowed blue momentarily, releasing him from his Unbreakable Vow to me. Dumbledore tapped my hand and the same effect occurred, releasing me.

"Well, that's that," Dumbledore said, turning back to his desk. "Now, I have prepared a binding magical contract with the terms discussed. If I could have your signature, please…?"

I took a quill from the writing set on his desk and dipped it into the inkwell, signing my name clearly on the line for my signature. Dumbledore took the quill and did the same on the line below. I was now officially a teacher at Hogwarts.

"Congratulations, Professor Monroe," Dumbledore said, shaking my hand in official recognition of the contract. "I hope you will have many fine years here at Hogwarts. Although," he said, almost as an afterthought, "I suppose I should have mentioned the curse on the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Curse?" I said, though I already knew what he was talking about. Voldemort had cursed the position of DADA professor long ago, when he attempted to apply for the job and then-new Headmaster Dumbledore turned him down.

"Yes," Dumbledore said, looking distressed. "Very forgetful of me to do so, I'm afraid! No Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher has taught here for more than a single school year since the job was cursed. I'm afraid I'm nearly out of applicants.

"Well," he went on, heartily. "I'm sure if anyone is capable of breaking the curse, _you_ are Professor Monroe!" He turned to his desk and began writing a note on a scrap of parchment, then folded it.

"I hope so," I said, earnestly, wondering if Dumbledore had really forgotten or had just done so "conveniently."

"Well," Dumbledore turned toward the door. "I must return to my administrative duties. If you would stop by Professor McGonagall's office and give her this —" he handed me the scrap of parchment he'd just written on "— she will get you sorted out to begin teaching." I nodded and he sent me through the door, out of his office.

Riding the stairs back to their base, I hoped that the downward spiral I was experiencing was not going to be prophetic of my teaching career! Teaching seven years of students defensive magic was not going to be easy. But perhaps I was just going through teacher's remorse. If nothing else, at least I had the next six months to decide whether this job was for me.

On the first floor I followed the signage that appeared and disappeared at random moments, pointing the way to the deputy headmistresses' office. Finally coming upon the door marked M. McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, I knocked and a woman's voice bade me enter.

I walked in and found her facing me across her desk, giving me a stern look. It seemed she did that to everyone the first time she met them, to either impress or intimidate them. I was neither impressed nor intimidated. Her office was decent sized, with a fireplace and mantle off to the right (on her left) and a very clean, Spartan arrangement of shelves lined with books. A number of plaques and certificates hung on the wall behind her and to her right, and there were two chairs in front of her desk.

More important than the chairs, however, were their current occupants — the two hooded figures I'd seen at the front of the school as I'd come through the gates, the mysterious passengers Harry and Ron had seen on the Hogwarts Express.

"You are Mr. James Monroe, correct?" she said, her tone as frosty as the window behind her. "The headmaster said to expect you here within 30 minutes of the train's arrival. You are very nearly late."

"Sorry," I said, walking up to the desk, between the two mystery guests. "He and I just finished talking. He asked me to give this to you." I handed her the scrap of parchment.

She read it silently, her mouth setting in a thin, angry line. "Merlin's beard," she muttered at last, shaking her head. "How does he keep coming up with these people?" She looked up at me. "So you are our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?"

"WHAT?" one of the hooded figures shouted, shocked.

I knew that voice, though, and I was just as shocked as he was. I turned to look at the figure. "Dudley?" I said. "Is that _you_?"

The figure stood, throwing back his hood. It was indeed Dudley Dursley. "Yes, it's me!" he said, sneering. "Thought I was going to let you tear my family apart, didn't you?"

"What the hell do you mean?" I snapped at him. "You _wanted_ to be a wizard!"

"Right," Dudley said. "But I didn't want to have to deal with _you_ to do it!"

"I happened to glance at the Book of Names," McGonagall said, tightly, her square glasses flashing furiously as she spoke. "It's the book that keeps the list of wizards born in Britain. I found his name in it, written there on Christmas Day. From what Professor Dumbledore has told me, _you_ found a way to make him a wizard, even though he _stole_ the Philosopher's Stone, the most important ingredient of the potion that transformed him, and you assisted him in doing so!"

"I gave him the means to do so," I admitted. "But I did not assist him! I was not even present when he stole it from Hagrid last July!"

"But once you knew he had it," McGonagall went on, relentlessly. "You should have returned it to Professor Dumbledore!"

I turned to look at her. "Dumbledore told me he had talked with Nicholas Flamel, and was going to destroy the Stone anyway — I just helped him accomplish that, and found another use for the Stone as well."

"And so did I!" Dudley said, loudly, pointing to the person sitting in the other chair. "Now there are _two_ ex-Muggles going to Hogwarts!"

The other person stood, pulling back the hood, and stared at me in undisguised loathing. It was Petunia Dursley.

"It's _your_ fault Vernon is dead," she said, her voice calm but filled with hatred. "_Your_ fault that my son was corrupted, seduced by magic and all its negative emotions, and _your_ fault that my sister's son brought that wizard to Little Whinging!

"I would have rather had _anyone_ other than you to teach us magic, you foul, evil man — but it will be a fitting revenge for everything you've put us through, because of that cursed Potter boy! Come, Dudley — we're going to our quarters!" Petunia and Dudley turned and walked out of McGonagall's office, leaving me and the Transfiguration teacher alone.

"'_Their_ quarters'?" I repeated, looking at McGonagall.

"Of course!" she snapped back at me. "I would _never_ try to integrate those two into the normal student body! I've given them a small suite to live in during the school year. Though," she added, darkly, "I suppose Dumbledore will insist they be Sorted into a House, like every other student."

"As for _you_, 'Professor,'" McGonagall informed me, coldly, "you have until seven a.m. tomorrow morning to submit your lesson plans for your students, in all seven years. And that is _only_ because you've started just today — otherwise, they would have been due tonight, by nine p.m." She put a set of old-fashioned keys on the desk in front of her and gestured at them. The keys slid across to my side of the desk. "These are the keys to your classroom and your office. Adjacent to your office you'll find your personal quarters. There will be a staff meeting tomorrow morning at six-thirty — you are expected to attend.

"You are dismissed." McGonagall sat down and busied herself with paperwork on her desk, ignoring me.

"I hope we haven't gotten off on the wrong foot, my dear," I told her, a measure of sarcasm in my voice.

"Dismissed!" she said again, more shrilly, and went back to her paperwork. I picked up the keys from her desk and stared at them a moment. There were obviously some disadvantages to working here I hadn't counted on.

"Great," I muttered, and walked out of her office, to begin my dream job.


	10. Triwizard Mania!

Ex Machina II

**Chapter 10 – Triwizard Mania!**

I had a few last-minute things to do before the start-of-term feast, but everything I'd brought from home had been unpacked and stored away in the Defense teacher's personal quarters. My travel trunks were shrunk and stored away in a cupboard, my coursework had been submitted to Professor McGonagall (complete and on time, the way she always insisted on getting it), and my reference books were on the shelves behind my desk in the work area of my quarters. I just needed to get rid of the stubble on my chin and I'd be good to go.

I dashed into the bathroom and stared at my face — it would take only a few moments to shave, a wand being a very handy alternative to a safety razor. A few moments later I had finished and walked back into my living area, rubbing a palm across my cheek — my face was smooth as an android's bottom. I always laughed whenever I thought of that line from _Star Trek: Insurrection _— though of course no one in this reality had ever heard of _Star Trek_ or Gene Roddenberry; no, they were all _Battlestar: Galactica_ fans here!

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," I said, turning to see who it was.

Professor Flitwick stuck his white-haired head inside the door and gave me a good-natured smile. "I hope you're ready to eat, James," he squeaked, "I'm famished!"

"I'm ravenous enough to eat an eagle's claw," I joked, and the Head of Ravenclaw House chuckled along with me. Dropping my wand in one of my robe pockets, I followed Flitwick along several corridors and down a number of well-hidden staircases, known only to the Hogwarts staff (and Fred and George Weasley, I suspected), which led to a small room east of the Great Hall, and thence to a door adjoining the two. We seated ourselves with the other teachers already gathered along the High Table.

Professor Dumbledore, of course, was in the centermost chair, chatting quietly with Professor Vector on his left. On his right was an empty chair which would normally hold Professor McGonagall, the deputy Headmistress. Next to that chair was the sallow-faced, unsmiling figure of Professor Severus Snape, the Potions Master. Next was Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy professor, and on her other side, Professor Sprout. The next-to-last chair had several cushions piled on it, and Flitwick took that one. I sat in the one next to him, furthest from the center chair.

Most of the students were already at their respective tables. A storm had been brewing for the past several hours, and many of those just walking in were shaking water out of their hair and clothing. I saw Harry and Ron taking seats at the Gryffindor table; Ron, especially, looked completely soaked, and his expression was rather cross. Hermione had joined her usual friends Padma Patil, Mandy Brocklehurst and Cho Chang at the Ravenclaw table and was chatting with them. I glanced back at the Gryffindor table and saw Harry staring in their direction. He looked so distracted it took Ron several nudges to get his attention, then he started and looked away, quickly. If Harry thought he had Ron (or anybody, really) fooled about how he felt toward Hermione, then he was only fooling himself. There were some interesting rumors around the school about them already — even the staff wasn't immune to gossip.

Before I had time to consider any of them, however, the doors of the Great Hall opened and Professor McGonagall, leading this year's crop of first-years, walked in, all soaking wet and shivering from the storm outside, and lined them up at the front of the Hall to listen to the Sorting Hat's song and be assigned a House.

I paid scant attention to the song — as novel as the idea of listening to a singing hat might be to some, once you'd heard it belt out a few variations of the same song, you've heard them all. I was already thinking about the biggest news of the school year, announced by McGonagall at our staff meeting that morning — the Triwizard Tournament would definitely go on as planned! The Tournament, a series of competitions between students at Hogwarts and two European wizarding schools, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, had not been held in centuries. In fact, it seemed a bit strange for them to revive it, considering that it had been shut down due to the number of student deaths that had occurred because of the difficulty of the tasks involved.

The Sorting finally ended. Professor McGonagall put away the Sorting Hat and the four-legged stool the first-years had sat on as they were Sorted. Professor Dumbledore stood, spreading his arms wide to welcome everyone there, and said, "I have only two words to say to you. _Tuck in_."

"Hear, hear!" I heard Harry and Ron say loudly, amongst other voices, as the empty dishes on the House tables and at the High Table filled with food, and everyone fell to stuffing themselves. Professor Flitwick and I chatted about O.W.L. scores from the previous year; he was quite enthusiastic about the results he'd seen, especially from two students he hadn't expected to receive passing marks, due to their cavalier attitude toward schoolwork for their first few years at Hogwarts: Fred and George Weasley.

"I have to tell you, James," he said, in his characteristic high, squeaky voice. "I believe you lit a fire under those lads when you took over Defense Against the Dark Arts from poor Professor Quirrell. Until then, they spent more time finding ways to avoid class than attending them, but you certainly turned them around!"

"Indeed," Professor Sprout nodded enthusiastically, causing her flyaway gray hair to shake alarmingly. "I was _certain_ they would fail Herbology — imagine my surprise when I saw their O.W.L. results this summer! _Both_ of them with Exceeds expectations!"

"I'm glad they did well," I agreed, and it was true that I was proud of them, too — in the fifth book, it was mentioned they only got three O.W.L.s apiece, whereas I had also seen the results of their O.W.L. examinations a few months ago, and both of them had made passing grades in Astronomy, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Potions, and Transfiguration — a very good showing.

Higher grades at the school were not just limited to the Weasley twins, either. A number of students were doing better than expected, thanks to what I considered a more consistent teaching approach — _and_ not having to deal with a new Defense teacher each year. It made for less relearning and duplication of effort, and gave students a more grounded foundation to work from. Many of the students in Harry's year, now starting their fourth, were reaping the benefits of his advanced training, as Harry had begun showing other students some of the spells he'd learned, spells that now came almost as natural to him as breathing. As for Harry's own work, I didn't advertise it, even among the other teachers, but Harry was well into N.E.W.T.-level spells and higher, and coming along nicely.

"I've also enjoyed your 'guest speaker' series, James," Flitwick went on. "They've been quite entertaining, and informative too, overall — with one notable exception," he added, with a small chuckle. I rolled my eyes but didn't comment. The less said about _that_ one, I decided, the better.

Dessert came, and the staff at the High Table, as well as the students _en masse_, dug into treacle tarts, chocolate gateau, and other sugary confectionaries as the storm continued to rage outside, winds howling and rain pounding against the windows. I did notice two people sitting at the Slytherin Table, the House table closest to me, that I'd rather not have seen again this year: Dudley Dursley and his mother, Petunia, were seated across from Draco Malfoy and his cronies.

Though they had never been officially Sorted into any House, Dudley and his mother had been "adopted" by the Slytherins, mostly to annoy Harry, it seemed. One could only imagine the uproar that would have ensued had two ex-Muggles become part of the "purebloods only" House. Dudley, who in the past three years had grown as large as Crabbe or Goyle, both of whom were sitting across from him, kept glancing around toward the Gryffindor table to see if Harry was looking his way. His mother, Petunia, looked quite out of place and very uncomfortable sitting with a group of students that until a few years ago would have caused her to run screaming from the Hall if one of them so much as looked cross-eyed at her.

Both of them, however, were doing passably well with the study guides I and the other teachers prepared for them. The study guides were in essence a self-directed course in the subject, prepared individually for each person taking it and specially graded by each teacher in addition to their other teaching duties, a bother that several of them kept reminding me about. Professor Snape, in fact, insisted that they come down to his classroom with the Slytherin students, saying that Potions was best learned in a group environment. I suspected that it was also to annoy Harry as well. Being the one who had brought Dudley and Petunia into the Wizarding world (I intended to do that only for Dudley, hoping it would bring him and Harry closer together; _that_ had not worked out too well) had not endeared me to some students' parents, mostly the purebloods, though there were others who had complained, feeling that it was "abominable" or "against the natural order" for Muggles to somehow gain magical ability.

One positive effect of Petunia and Dudley gaining magical ability was that the Dursley home, back on Privet Drive, was slightly more bearable for Harry during the summers, especially with Vernon gone. Petunia, though a witch for less than three years now, had taken to keeping her house spotlessly clean magically, and had pestered Professor Flitwick for all the cleaning charms he could come up with. Dudley, of course, was prohibited from using magic while underage (at least in public), but as in other wizarding homes, he could practice magic as much as he wanted to inside the house, since the _Trace_ (which the Ministry had surreptitiously applied to him during his first year at Hogwarts) couldn't tell who was working the magic, only where the underage wizard was and whether wand magic was being used around him.

For the most part, Harry sought out my house in Little Whinging as a refuge from his aunt and cousin, and stayed at Privet Drive only as long as needed to renew the enchantment that kept Lord Voldemort at bay. I glanced over at him, at the Gryffindor table, seeing him and Ron both working enthusiastically on a last helping of gateau. Now fourteen, Harry was a bit taller than when he started at school, and a bit huskier as well; he was eating well, and Quidditch practice and playing had kept him relatively fit, physically. I wondered, idly, if I could talk Dumbledore into setting up a room where students could get some physical exercise. That way everyone, not just the Quidditch players and those engaged in other outdoor activities could improve their aerobic capacity and strength. Wizards were notorious for being physically inactive, though most of them remained fit because of their magical abilities.

With pudding finished, the food disappeared off of everyone's plates and Professor Dumbledore stood once again; the Great Hall immediately went silent to hear what he had to say. "So, now that we are all fed and watered," he began. Someone at the Ravenclaw table snorted — it was Hermione (in the original story, she had learned to her dismay that there were house-elves at Hogwarts) — and I surmised she had just found out that fact at the Ravenclaw table, somehow, and was upset that Hogwarts was using them as "slave labor," but Dumbledore ignored the interruption, and launched into his usual list of post-feast announcements: Mr. Fitch's list of prohibited items, and the warning about students entering the Forbidden Forest; he then announced that Quidditch was being canceled for the year, something else I'd learned about in our staff meeting just this morning. I wished I'd had a chance to send a note to Harry before Dumbledore's announcement, because he looked stricken at the news, as did Fred and George Weasley, sitting nearby. With that said, however, Dumbledore quickly added that the Triwizard Tournament was taking place at Hogwarts this year.

"You're JOKING!" Fred Weasley said, loudly, and everyone broke up, laughing or chuckling at his obvious surprise. But of course, Dumbledore _wasn't_ joking, as he explained the history of the Tournament and how it had been discontinued centuries before due to mounting student death tolls. The Headmaster assured everyone, however, that the Departments of International Magical Cooperation, and Magical Games and Sports had worked hard to make it as safe as possible. The delegations from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, the other members of the Tournament, would arrive in late October, and the tasks would take place in November, February and June.

"Just one other thing, before we all whisk off to bed," Dumbledore concluded. "I did ask the Ministry to consider raising the minimum age of contestants to seventeen —" There were sounds of protest from the students; I saw Fred and George looking suddenly furious "— but it was, in their studied opinion, unnecessary, as the Tournament, being a test of skill and magical knowledge, an important part of such knowledge is being aware of your limitations.

"It is my fervent wish, however, that any student submitting their names for consideration as a champion be aware that skill in spells exceeding O.W.L. levels of difficulty will in all likelihood be required to successfully complete each of the three tasks. I ask each of your to consider that, and to that end I, as Headmaster, will require that students be at least fifteen years of age before entering the Tournament. There will be enchantments in place to keep anyone who is under fifteen by the thirty-first of October from entering the Tournament." Whispered comments and mutterings were flying about the Great Hall, but Dumbledore smiled and with a flourish of his emerald-robed arms intoned, "Now, as the hour is late, and it is important for all of you to be rested and alert for your lessons tomorrow morning, off to bed you go. Chop, chop!"

There was a good deal of banging and scraping as students stood and swarmed into the Entrance Hall and up the marble staircase or down, toward the dungeons. I stood, along with Professor Flitwick, who was talking excitedly about the Tournament. I noticed Harry and Ron still seated at the Gryffindor table, along with Fred and George. The twins had been keen to enter the Tournament in the original stories — it was easy to guess they would do so now, as they were both sixteen. Hermione would turn fifteen in a few weeks, well before the October deadline; however, I couldn't see her being interested in the Tournament, not if Harry wasn't going to participate, and Dumbledore's final statements had pretty much cut him and Ron out of the competition, both of them being only fourteen.

Ron would turn fifteen on March first, far too late to get past the Age Line Dumbledore would draw, and Harry was even younger. Also, there was no Barty Crouch, Jr. disguised as Alastor Moody, the erstwhile Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in Harry's fourth year, to place his name in the Goblet of Fire under a fourth, fictitious school. I smiled to myself, wondering if any such plans had ever been in the works to kidnap me, so that Crouch could take over my job. It would have been interesting if he had tried.

I was about to leave with Professor Flitwick when a hand touched my arm, and I turned to see Professor McGonagall standing beside me. "Professor Monroe, the Headmaster would like a word before you go." McGonagall had mellowed somewhat toward me in the last three years; we weren't exactly best friends forever, but I doubt she let many people see past her stern exterior and oh so prim and proper attitude. I nodded and turned back to look at the High Table; Dumbledore had reseated himself after dismissing everyone from the feast. McGonagall turned and exited the Great Hall, leaving me and the headmaster as its final two occupants.

"Hello, Professor," I said, taking the chair next to Dumbledore.

"Hello, James," he smiled genially. "I trust you had a pleasant summer."

"Yes," I said, "it was busy." I didn't add that, after Harry had spent a week back at Privet Drive, to renew the enchantment Dumbledore had placed to keep him safe there he, Hermione, her parents and I had gone on a three-week Mediterranean cruise that took us from Barcelona to Istanbul, letting them explore some magical places of interest in those countries, as well as giving Wendell and Monica, Hermione's parents, a chance to be with her for more than week before she went rushing off to the Burrow or somewhere.

I had considered taking Ron along on the cruise as well, but neither Harry nor Hermione seemed interested in including him. I let it drop, wondering which they wanted more — time away from him, or time to be together by themselves? It seemed the more Ron and Hermione were together, the more they tended to bicker and quarrel with each other. Perhaps it was mere coincidence that their quarreling increased as Harry and Hermione became more and more interested in one another. Perhaps it was no coincidence at all.

But, if Dumbledore had any inkling of the feelings developing between Harry and Hermione, he said only, "Were you able to attend the World Cup with Harry, Miss Granger, and Mr. Weasley and his family?"

I shook my head. "I decided not to inflict myself on them — I'm not much of a Quidditch fan, anyway. Besides, I needed the time to finish up my Defense syllabuses for McGonagall."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Unfortunate business with those Death Eaters causing that riot," he murmured. "And the appearance of the Dark Mark once again — a terrible, terrible, thing to happen." I nodded soberly in agreement.

The headmaster gave me an appraising look. "I wanted to speak to you about the Triwizard Tournament," he said, leaning a bit closer to me. "What do you think of it?"

"It's quite an honor," I pointed out, "for the Ministry to decide to have it held here, after all this time."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore shrugged. "But I believe more than just the Ministry is responsible for its reinstatement."

It was my turn to gaze at him appraisingly, considering what he might be implying. "Do you suspect Voldemort's influence, once again?" I asked, and Dumbledore nodded slowly.

"I do sense Voldemort's hand in this move to revive the Triwizard Tournament," he confided to me. "He has been rumored to be in the forests of Albania since escaping from your home after leaving Quirrell dead there."

I wondered privately if Voldemort's hiding place had anything to do with the fact that Helena Ravenclaw, the daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, one of the Founders of Hogwarts, had stolen her mother's magical diadem and hidden it in Albania, inside a hollow tree. "So why don't we go there and find him?" I asked.

"I believe he is no longer there," Dumbledore replied. "By an odd coincidence, Arthur Weasley, who works at the Ministry of Magic, happened to remark in my hearing this past summer that Bertha Jorkins, who is also employed at the Ministry, had gone on holiday to Albania and had come back nearly a week late. Her excuse, Arthur said, was that she had 'lost track of time.'"

"And you don't believe that?" I surmised.

"Actually, it is quite plausible," Dumbledore said, candidly. "I remember Bertha from her time here at Hogwarts. Suffice to say, she was neither very punctual in class attendance nor well-organized in her studies. Yet, since her return from Albania, she has worked ceaselessly, and quite efficiently, I might add, to bring the Triwizard Tournament to fruition."

"That's not much to go on," I said, skeptically. "Why didn't you just check this Jorkins woman to see if she's possessed?"

"By a happy coincidence," Dumbledore went on, steepling his fingers in front of himself on the table, "I met with Bertha and her superior, Barty Crouch, a few weeks ago, to finalize arrangements for the arrivals of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students later this year. I was able to talk with Bertha at length at one point, while Barty was discussing a Ministry issue with young Mr. Percy Weasley, his newest protégé, and I can safely say that Bertha has returned to her normal, if somewhat scatterbrained, self."

"So, basically," I pointed out, "you can't prove anything of what you're saying about Bertha Jorkins."

"Not without a detailed examination of her memory for any continuity gaps that would support her being possessed."

"And doing that would arouse suspicions in the Ministry, which might get back to Voldemort, wherever he is."

"That is, unfortunately, my conclusion as well."

"So Bertha's a dead end," I finished.

"Agreed," Dumbledore admitted. "But hear me out, James — there is more to the situation than just Bertha Jorkins's behavior."

"Such as?" I prompted.

"The riot that took place after the Quidditch World Cup," Dumbledore pointed out, "began just after many of the Ministry officials and Aurors Apparated away, leaving the rest of the operation to the 'mop-up' crews, but before most of the spectators began to leave. It was a most opportune moment to stage an incident of that sort…"

"So the timing was just right," I added, drawing the conclusion for him. Dumbledore nodded, and we studied each other for several seconds, as I realized what he was implying. "What I think you're suggesting, Albus, is that Voldemort now has someone working for him from within the Ministry, or has possessed someone working there himself."

"I consider both situations to be very likely," Dumbledore said, looking very serious. "Voldemort may have realized that his best chance to gain access to Harry is to control wizarding Britain's governing body, the Ministry of Magic, and thereby, Hogwarts. I have always tried to curtail any overt control by the Ministry during my tenure here, especially during the past two decades, both because education should not be a political endeavor, and because I foresaw the eventual return of Voldemort would put a Ministry-controlled Hogwarts at risk."

"It sounds like we're going to have to be pretty cautious about this Triwizard Tournament, then," I said. "Do you know either of the headmasters of the other schools?"

"Igor Karkaroff is the headmaster of Durmstrang," Dumbledore said. "He was a Death Eater during Voldemort's first rise to power. After his defeat, Karkaroff was captured and placed in Azkaban; he tried to curry favor with the Wizengamot by revealing the names of fellow Death Eaters."

"It must have worked," I remarked, "since he's not in Azkaban any more."

"True," Dumbledore concurred. "But confidentially, James, I am surprised that he is willing to return to Britain — there are a number of Death Eaters who would seek retribution for his actions, if they were able to penetrate the school's defenses."

"And the other headmaster?" I prompted.

"Headmistress, actually," Dumbledore said, with a small smile. "Olympe Maxime, quite a striking woman, actually. An excellent teacher, by all accounts — I would be proud to have her here at Hogwarts, if she were not already employed at Beauxbatons. Both of them will have trained their students well, and both are keen strategists when it comes to competitions of this sort — we would have our hands full even if this were _only_ about the Tournament itself!"

I almost laughed. "I was beginning to wonder if you were more interesting in stopping Voldemort, or wining the Tournament, Albus!"

Dumbledore waved a long-fingered hand airily. "There's nothing to prevent us from doing both, James," he said, his eyes twinkling merrily. But his expression quickly sobered. "I must tell you something," he said, lowering his voice to speak confidentially once again. "I can see that my approach with Harry, leaving him on his aunt and uncle's doorstep and expecting them to care properly for him, was not the best decision I might have made."

"I tend to agree with you," I said, equally serious. "Fortunately, I came along and straightened you out," I added, smiling.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Indeed. I hope you will continue to do so, when you see me about to err again so grievously." After a moment he leaned toward me, his expression growing intense. "We must be on guard this year, James, while the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are here, as well as the Ministry. If Voldemort has managed to infiltrate either school, or the Ministry itself, as I believe likely, Harry could be in danger."

"Harry is pretty capable, for a fourteen-year old," I pointed out. "He's been doing outstanding work in my Defense classes these past few years. And he's been helping other students on his own time as well. He could give some of the sixth- and seventh-year students a run for their money."

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore said quickly. "I do not mean to diminish Harry's skill, or the wealth of learning he's accomplished. But I do not want him subjected to unnecessary danger."

"Nor I, Albus," I said, sounding a bit too argumentative, though I smiled and gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder as I stood. "I will keep an eye on Harry _and_ on the Ministry officials who'll be overseeing the tournament. Do you know who'll be here?"

Dumbledore had risen as well, and we walked out the east exit of the Great Hall, passing through the antechamber and into a corridor leading to staircases to the upper floors. "I know of at least two — Barty Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, will act as official liaison between the Ministry and the two headmasters. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Games and Sports, is scheduled to be master of ceremonies at each of the tasks, as well as a judge. Cornelius has also hinted that another Ministry official would accompany them, but he has not as yet seen fit to provide me with a name."

We had come to the intersection where we would part ways, to go to our respective quarters. "Don't worry, Albus," I told him, confidently. "Between us and the rest of the staff, Harry will be safe enough, especially if you're not going to allow him to participate in the tournament. Although I think, personally, that he could do as well as anyone in the school."

"No doubt, James, no doubt he could," Dumbledore agreed. "Especially if his first three years here are any indication of his ability."

"He's got plenty of that," I said. "He's managed to stay ahead of Voldemort these past three years, hasn't he?"

Dumbledore nodded. "With a little help from his friends," he added. And with that, we both said goodnight and went our separate ways.

***

Back in my personal quarters, I relaxed with a bottle of soda, chilled ice-cold with an Icing Charm, and looked over the lesson plans I would begin tomorrow. After struggling through my first half-year of teaching trying to gain McGonagall's respect and finding my stride as a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, I spent the following summer thinking through my approach and trying to bring something to Hogwarts the students there hadn't seen in a long time in their Defense instructor — continuity. Since Voldemort had cursed the position back in the late 1950's, shortly after Dumbledore became Headmaster, trouble had plagued anyone who'd accepted the position — no wizard had held the job for more than a year.

In fact, Voldemort or his followers had been plaguing Hogwarts one way or another since the day Quirinus Quirrell died. Shortly after I started teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts in January 1992, Harry had come to me, mentioning a strange feeling he'd gotten when he'd touched Ron's pet rat, Scabbers. I hadn't even been thinking about the fact that Peter Pettigrew had been hiding under the very noses of the Weasley family for the past decade. We had Ron bring the little rat down to the Great Hall for breakfast one morning, and Harry cast the Animagus Revealment Charm on him, leaving a very surprised Pettigrew crouching on the Gryffindor table among the breakfast dishes. He'd tried to run, of course, but an alert Severus Snape had nabbed him, dangling him in the air by an ankle, before he could break the revealment charm and turn back into a rat to hide. Dumbledore turned him over to the Aurors, and a very long complicated process to release Sirius Black, the man convicted of his murder and Harry's godfather, from Azkaban was begun. It took nearly a year, but Black was eventually freed, ironically about the same time Peter died in Azkaban.

Also, at the beginning of Harry's second year, someone (probably Lucius Malfoy, using his son, Draco) managed to get Tom Riddle's diary smuggled into Hogwarts and into the possession of Luna Lovegood, a first-year Ravenclaw that Malfoy had seemed to take an interest in during the fall term. By the time of the Christmas break, she had become aloof and was acting more and more secretive, until I caught her writing in the diary during a Defense class and, upon recognizing it, confiscated it from her. I took it to Dumbledore, who tried to confiscate it from _me_, whereupon I told him I suspected it was a Horcrux. _That_ got his attention very quickly! After enlisting Harry's help to open the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets (as it turned out, Dumbledore knew where the entrance was, but could not speak Parseltongue to gain access), Harry, Dumbledore, his pet phoenix Fawkes and I visited the Chamber and slew the Basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor, something Dumbledore had in fact wanted to do for quite some time, as it would give the Sword the power to destroy Horcruxes. We then took the Sword back to Dumbledore's office, where he had Harry use it to destroy the diary.

The rest of Harry's second year passed without incident, except that his godfather Sirius was released from Azkaban in May, and he and Harry spent a few weeks in July getting reacquainted, after he'd spent the required week at Privet Drive renewing the blood enchantments. After that, we organized a house-cleaning party to help Sirius reclaim his family home, number 12, Grimmauld Place, back from the various pests that had inhabited it over the previous decade. That was completed just in time for Harry's third year to begin.

Harry's third year was blissfully free of menace, unless you count the visit from special guest speaker Gilderoy Lockhart. I had decided to institute a series of lectures from notable wizards, having them describe their experiences with the Dark Arts and Dark creatures. The first lecture, given by naturalist Newt Scamander and held after the Halloween feast, was a great hit — even though the old boy tended to ramble a bit, he had a lot of great stories to tell.

Encouraged, I brought in someone I knew would be a real crowd-pleaser: Gwenog Jones, Captain and Beater for the Holyhead Harpies, the only all-female professional Quidditch team. She gave an enthusiastic speech the Friday before the end of fall term, just before the Hogsmeade visit, and made quite an impression on many students, including Ron's sister Ginny and fellow Gryffindor Dean Thomas. Further emboldened by these successes, I next had the choice of bringing in comedian Derwent Shimpling, who had a lot of funny stories about his encounters with the Dark Arts, or Gilderoy Lockhart, the foremost author and Dark Arts expert. When my choices leaked out (it was probably Fred and George, who I suspected of sneaking into my office and finding the list I'd made of potential speakers), there was a hue and cry to bring Lockhart in. I admit I bowed to pressure. Lockhart spoke the Friday before the February Hogsmeade visit (which was, coincidentally, the day that Buckbeak, Hagrid's hippogriff, was sentenced to death over the matter of attacking Draco Malfoy back in early September).

_Big_ mistake, though. Once Lockhart learned that the famous Harry Potter was attending Hogwarts, and stories about the goings-on here that he'd been involved in were divulged to him (Hermione being one of the star-struck Lockhart fans who'd spilled the beans) Gilderoy got it into his head to write _another_ book, a follow-up to his autobiography, entitled _Magical We: The Gilderoy Lockhart and Harry Potter Story_, even though Harry had never even _met_ the man until the day he came to the school to speak! It wasn't until the beginning of March, just after Ron's birthday on the first, that Dumbledore finally put his foot down and sent Gilderoy packing back to London.

I did manage to redeem myself and the speakers' series a few months later when I invited both Remus Lupin and Sirius Black to speak on their experiences with the Dark Arts. Black gave a passionate recounting of his time in Azkaban, surrounded by dementors, and how he managed to survive, believing in his innocence when no one else did; meanwhile, Lupin lectured about several Dark creatures and how to combat and guard against them, and finished off his part of the lecture describing his own experience with Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who infected and made him a werewolf, a secret he had kept for nearly 30 years. I don't think there was a dry eye in the Great Hall as Lupin described the revulsion, the rejection he felt from wizards who learned of his situation — until he met Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, who gave him a chance to understand the Dark Arts and learn how to defend himself from them, along with his friends, James Potter and Sirius Black, who always supported him and never thought less of him for his "furry problem," as they put it. Lupin received a standing ovation from the students of Hogwarts as he finished his speech; even Severus Snape stood, though his clapping was less enthusiastic than most.

I was suddenly brought back to the present when there came a knock at my door. "Professor Monroe," a familiar voice said, and I suppressed a sigh. _He couldn't even wait until our first scheduled meeting_, I thought, with a mixture of chagrin and perhaps a small amount of grudging admiration for his dedication to his magical education.

"Come in," I said, and Dudley Dursley slouched into the room, giving me a sullen, resentful look. About the only thing that had changed about Dudley in the past three years was his size. He was as vast as ever; the only positive effect Hogwarts food had had on him was to improve his promptness in showing up at mealtimes.

I did have to admit one positive thing about Dudley and his mother Petunia both being here at Hogwarts — they provided a challenge to both the purebloods that believed Muggles were fools or dolts who could never understand magic. Both Dudley and his mother were doing passably well in their studies; not setting the wizarding world afire with their magical skill, but no slouches, either. Dudley, who'd always wanted to learn magic once he figured out its advantages, was coming along at just above Average level in his classes, and his mother was not far behind him.

"Good evening, Mr. Dursley," I greeted him formally. He tried to give me some attitude, crossing his arms and putting a condescending smirk on his face. "I didn't expect to see you until our first session, later this week." He and Petunia both got an hour of private lessons from me, along with being allowed to visit me during office hours (which admittedly, I didn't keep very regularly, since I had seven classes of the most demanding subject in the school, as well as teaching them).

"I wanted to give you our summer assignments," Dudley said, dropping rolled-up parchment scrolls onto my desk. It was part of his and Petunia's curriculum to keep up their education during the summer months, to catch up with the rest of the students. So far, both Dudley and his mother were performing at about the level of a competent third-year, not very far behind the curve. I had a sneaking respect for Dudley and his mother — though they had tricked me into giving both of them magical ability using the Philosopher's Stone, they had done far better than I would have expected them to in so short a time, going from being literally afraid of magic to competent magical users.

When Dudley didn't turn and waddle from the room, as he usually did after delivering homework, I asked, "Is there something else?"

Dudley shrugged. "I dunno," he said, dully, not looking at me. "I guess… I was just thinking…"

"You want more homework, perhaps?" I asked, to pest him a bit.

Dudley looked at me sharply. "No!" he said, but shut up once again. Obviously, he was worried about what my answer would be, whatever his question was. "I was just thinking about… the Tournament."

"The Triwizard Tournament?" I amplified, and he nodded. "What about it?"

"Well…" Dudley was acting rather peculiar. He looked around, stalling for time, then shrugged and asked, "How hard do you think it'll be to win?"

"Oh," I smiled, finally understanding. "Too hard for _you_, Dudley — you can forget about even _being_ in the Tournament. Dumbledore isn't going to let anyone under fifteen enter — didn't you hear him tonight?"

"But that's not fair!" Dudley cried. "What about Harry —"

"Harry's younger than _you_ are," I pointed out. "He won't be allowed to be a champion, either."

Dudley glared at me. "Dumbledore lets him get away with anything," he argued.

"_Professor_ Dumbledore, Dudley," I said automatically.

Dudley snorted. "_See_?" he said, as if I'd just proven his point. "You're just a pawn! You've gotten as bad as all the other teachers here — you can't help but stick up for that old man! _Or_ for Harry, for that matter! Malfoy was right about him — and about you!" He made a rude sound with his lips, then turned and stalked out of the room.

I briefly considered detention for Dudley, but decided against it. It would only reinforce his ideas that I was a part of the Hogwarts establishment. But I paused — _wasn't_ I a part of it, in reality, in all the things that I had done over the past few years? I'd wanted to slip in under the radar, give Harry an opportunity to learn magic outside of the controlled conditions of Hogwarts, and yet here I was, spoon-feeding students Defense lessons from nine a.m. Monday through four-thirty p.m. on Friday! Maybe Dudley was right. Maybe I _was_ a pawn, of my own choosing.

I wondered about what any of these wizards would think if they knew the full extent of my abilities. I was not just a wizard — I was a _Power_, a being that could control space and time itself, if I desired. I had only to exert a miniscule fraction of my energies, and both Dudley and his mother would suddenly find themselves Muggles once again. I could obliterate Voldemort just as easily, or turn him back into an eleven-year old Tom Riddle, forcing him to live his life over again. I had already killed him more times than I could remember, through various witches and wizards in the Wizarding world, in other realities I'd been to, realities where Voldemort had won the day, killing Harry or having him killed somehow, before he could defeat the Dark Lord.

It would be very simple, I thought, to simply reach out _right now_ and squash Voldemort like the bug he was, to obliterate him without a trace. The temptation prickled in the back of my mind, squirming to be let out, to sear across the distance between myself and the Dark Lord and vaporize him in a flash of all-consuming fire. But it did not let that idea, tantalizing as it was, reach the level of a deliberate, conscious thought, to activate my Power and make it real. The _whole point _of my being here, I reminded myself, was to get to Harry early, to give him the tools and the skills he needed make the choice for himself. To suddenly take matters into my own hands again would be to revert back to my Voldemort-killing days.

_Thus conscience does make cowards of us all_. I smiled at the quotation from _Hamlet_ that arose, unbidden, from my unconscious mind. I was no coward, I knew — I would not let Harry be killed in this reality, come what may. Dumbledore was right, though; we would have to be careful during the Tournament, its reintroduction at this point in time was too unlikely to have been mere coincidence. If Voldemort was behind it, somehow, we would have to beat him at his own subterfuge. _The Tournament's the thing_, I thought, paraphrasing one of the Bard's famous lines, _Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the Dark King_.

***

With everyone anticipating the upcoming Tournament, the weeks flew by briskly. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall reported a resurgence of interest in Charms and Transfiguration spells, respectively, and the other teachers noted increased attention in their classes as well. Everyone at school, it seemed, wanted to get in on the Tournament, somehow — students from the fifth, sixth and seventh years were constantly talking about applying, as well as some of the fourth-years whose fifteenth birthdays came up before October 31, the day the champions would be selected. Even the first- and second-years, hoping for another Tournament in five years, were studying harder. The third years, in that uncomfortable middle section that was too young for this Tournament and too late for the hypothetical next one, cheerfully joked that they might as well repeat a year, so they could be around for the next one. I joked with my third-year Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff class that that strategy might work for Slytherins (Marcus Flint had left school the year before, having repeated his seventh year, N.E.W.T.-lessly) but that Ravenclaw students would probably not want to use that approach!

I began to accelerate the coursework in my classes, taking advantage of the heightened interest to push everyone a bit harder. In fourth year, Harry's class, we weren't scheduled to discuss some of the more aggressive curses until the winter term, but I wanted to give everyone (Harry already knew them, of course) a chance to get to know them more intimately.

"We've been discussing curses," I told the fourth-years Gryffindors and Slytherins in their double class during the first week of October. "You've seen the Reductor Curse and the Blasting Curse, both highly aggressive and destructive curses." The Gryffindors were nodding thoughtfully or taking notes, while the Slytherins were grinning covertly at one another — surely the two Houses had very different ideas in mind about the use of these spells!

"We've also discussed some defenses for these spells," I went on. "The Shield Charm, for example — it is a good general-purpose defense against most curses. You should be aware, however, that there are some curses that will penetrate the Shield Charm — can anyone name some?"

Parvati Patil, who had assumed the mantle of being the "brain" of Gryffindor House since Hermione was in Ravenclaw, immediately put up her hand, and Ron leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes at Harry.

"Yes, Miss Patil?" I pointed to her.

"The Unforgivable Curses, sir," she said, "cannot be blocked by magical means, especially the Imperius and Cruciatus Curses, which attack the target wizard's mind directly."

Draco Malfoy, sitting in the back of the class, muttered something under his breath to Pansy Parkinson, sitting next to him, and she spoke up. "That's wrong, Professor! The Cruciatus Curse attacks the body, not the mind!"

Parvati's eyes narrowed, and she looked ready to argue, but I spoke up first. "The Cruciatus Curse attacks the area of the brain that perceives pain, Miss Parkinson, turning on all its pain receptors. It's a brilliant spell in that it does no direct damage to the body, except to send your endorphin production into overdrive, trying to stem the sensations of pain. Five points to Gryffindor."

Pansy sat back, looking chagrinned, and when she thought I'd turned away she slugged Malfoy in the arm, who gave her a look that was a combination of mock surprise and smug amusement. "So," I continued, "how can we resist these spells, if we cannot block them?" I looked around the room for another volunteer, and Parvati's gaze followed mine, to see if anyone else was going to answer. Her hand slowly went in the air. "Miss Patil, again," I said, pointing to her.

"It's possible to resist the Imperius Curse," she said, lowering her hand. "Especially if you're expecting it."

I nodded and took out my wand. "So, who'd like to come up and have a go?" I asked. Everyone in class looked at me as if I were mad.

"Sir, you can't use the Imperius Curse on someone!" Lavender Brown said, outraged. "You'd go to Azkaban!"

"This is a teaching environment, Miss Brown," I said, calmly. "Aurors are not going to burst through the door and arrest me if I demonstrate the Imperius Curse on any of you in order to show you how to resist it."

At the back of the class, Pansy turned and spoke to Draco. He stared at her for a moment, and then raised his hand. "I'll do it," he called out. Everyone looked around at him, including Harry.

"Very good, Mr. Malfoy," I said. "Come forward." Malfoy swaggered to the front of class and stood before me. "Ready?" I asked, preparing to curse him.

Draco nodded. "Good luck, _sir_," he said, smirking, as if he expected me to fail. What Pansy had said to him was, "Now's your chance to prove you can resist an Imperius Curse, Draco, instead of just bragging about it!"

I pointed my wand and said, "_Imperio_!" Draco's face took on a dull, blank look, as if he'd suddenly become totally and completely bored. "Give us a big smile, Mr. Malfoy, and do some pirouettes for the class."

Malfoy broke into a broad grin, and he spread his arms and began to spin on one foot. Harry and Ron began to laugh, then applaud, and the rest of the class followed suit, even the other Slytherins. I lowered my wand, turning off my control, and Malfoy came to a halt, turning red with mortification at the applause.

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," I said, gesturing for him to sit down. He did, and Pansy whispered something in his ear, causing him to glare first at her, then at me.

"Anyone else?" I said, ignoring the smoking look Malfoy was giving me, and Harry raised his hand. "Ah, Mr. Potter," I said. "Come right up."  
Harry walked up to the front of the class, standing before me with a look of determination etched across his face. "How many spins can _you_ do, Potter?" Malfoy called from the back of the room, and the Slytherins snickered. Harry's eyes flicked toward Malfoy for a moment, but he simply shook his head, dismissing the comment.

Malfoy turned to Pansy, his voice so low no one heard him but her (and me), "I'd ask Monroe to make Potter kiss his arse, but he doesn't need an Imperius Curse for _that_." Pansy snickered. I even smiled a bit, thinking, _Sour grapes, Malfoy_. Malfoy's willpower practically nonexistent, as unused as he was to exerting it.

"_Imperio_!" I said again, and Harry's expression softened, becoming nearly as blank as Malfoy's had been. "Jump up on the desk for me, Mr. Potter." Harry crouched, but did not jump. His body was trembling with some internal conflict.

"Curse him again!" Blaise Zabini, one of the Slytherins, called out.

"Harry," I said, still pointing my wand. "Jump onto the desk!" Harry began rocking back and forth, trying to obey the command and fight it at the same time. Finally, he fell over backwards.

_But he hadn't jumped_. I hadn't expected him to — Harry had been learning to fight the Imperius Curse for some time now. The Gryffindors in class were all clapping and cheering for him. The Slytherins — well, not so much. Draco Malfoy looked as if he was going to be violently ill at what he'd just seen.

I demonstrated the other Unforgivable curses as well, using a spider as the test subject, as the fake Moody had done in the original story (with an equally unwelcome reaction from Ron, who was afraid of spiders, especially ones enlarged to ten times normal size). The spider thrashed and kicked under the Cruciatus Curse, and fell over dead when I cursed it with the _Avada Kedavra_. In the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff class, Hannah Abbott fainted when I demonstrated it — I had to halt class to take her to the infirmary. Still, I reasoned, it was better for students to see such things _now_ rather than some day when a Death Eater was trying to curse them. Whatever Moody's (or really, Barty Crouch, Jr.) motivations had been in the fourth novel, he had done Harry and the other fourth-years an unwitting service in showing them the power of the Unforgivables.

A week before the end of the month, when the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were due to arrive, I finished up my classes for the week, walking back to my office to wait there for any students who might have questions on what they'd been studying. But I had hardly sat there for a minute before I stood and locked the door, then walked to the back of the office and into my personal quarters, which were connected by a single, lockable door. I walked out of my quarters and down some back corridors, taking passageways little used by students (except, probably, Fred and George) until I reached the Entrance Hall via its north door, and exited the school.

It was a cool, cloudy day, and I turned south to walk down to the lake for a bit of solitude. In truth, it seemed I was hardly ever alone anymore with time on my hands, as I had been the first ten years I spent in Little Whinging, living a few blocks from Harry's house.

The lake was a placid sheet of blue-gray, reflecting the sky above it, and I wandered aimlessly along its shore. This teaching thing might be fine for some, but I was beginning to get bored with it, even though it kept me in closer proximity to Harry than I ever could have had if I were still back in Surrey. I looked around, wondering what I could do to snap myself out of my listless state, when I heard a giggle.

It had come from behind a nearby hedge, and I walked over quietly and stepped around, finding Harry and Hermione both lying together on a blanket, feeding each other cookies from a tin sitting between them. Hermione glanced my way and gave a little shriek of surprise. Harry looked up and froze, the cookie in his hand poised halfway to Hermione's lips. Both of them looked at me, eyes wide with uncertainty, not knowing what to say or do next.

"Afternoon," I said, breezily, as if I were surprised to see them as well (which I was). "Nice day for a picnic beside the lake."

"Uh, yeah," Harry said, hesitantly. "Uh, Professor Monroe —" I smiled at his formality "— did, uh, did you come looking for us?"

"No," I said. "Just got lucky. Like you." Okay, I couldn't resist adding that.

Hermione blushed crimson. "But we aren't _doing_ anything!" Harry protested.

"I know," I said, with mock relief. "Thank goodness for that, at least — I might've been traumatized!"

Both of them stared at me, openmouthed. Then Hermione giggled, and Harry grinned at me, finally seeing the humor in the situation. I chuckled and said, "Sorry for the interruption." I turned to go.

"Professor — uh, Uncle Jimmy," Harry spoke up, tentatively, and I looked back at him. "You, um, won't say anything about this to Ron, will you…?"

"Of course not," I shook my head. "I leave that to the two of you."

Harry nodded, relieved, and I started to move on, but stopped. "Oh, could I have one of those biscuits, please?" I asked. Harry gave me a curious look but tossed me a cookie from the tin between him and Hermione. I took a bite, smiled and said, "Mmm, thanks! See you two in class next week," then continued my walk along the lake. In a few more weeks, I knew, the school would be standing somewhere along the shores here, waiting for the arrival of the students from the rival schools, so that the selection of the champions could proceed and the Tournament begin.

During those weeks, whenever Harry and Hermione were in one of my classes together, I noticed they now sat so that Ron or some other student was between them. I considered asking Harry if something had happened between them, but thought better of it — after all, strictly speaking it was none of my concern, unless I had reason to think their friendship (or relationship, or whatever it had become) was interfering with their schoolwork, and then only so far as I could do anything about it in my classes.

Of course I had no reason to keep Harry and Hermione apart; there was nothing special about Harry and Ginny getting together, aside from the fact that they did in the canon storyline. I'd already thrown that storyline out the window, so however things went here was just how the cards would play.

On October 30th, a day marked by classes with most students distracted by the impending arrival of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons delegations, after assembling in the Entrance Hall the four Houses marched outside into the chilly afternoon air, down a set of steps near the southwest corner of the castle that led to the area near the lake, where I had found Harry and Hermione the week earlier. I was standing with the other staff in the back of the assembly, trying to listen to the conversations of some of the Gryffindors, curious to hear what their thoughts were. Fred and George, as usual, were already discussing strategies for dealing with the tasks the champions would be asked to perform, though of course no one except the teachers had any idea what those tasks would be (and we weren't telling, for the most part). They were also near the back of the crowd of students, well within my hearing, and I suspected their conversation was in part aimed at trying to get me to give up some information.

"You sure Charlie knows what he's talking about?" Fred asked his twin, trying to sound skeptical. He was keeping the corner of one eye on me, making sure I was listening. "I'd think dragons would be too dangerous for fifteen-year olds to handle, assuming one of the champions picked is that young."

"Well, Dumbledore did say he wanted to make the minimum age seventeen," George pointed out thoughtfully. "We should be happy he was overruled, you know."

A deep voice behind me spoke quietly, just loud enough for them to hear, "It should make for an interesting Tournament," Dumbledore was remarking to Professor McGonagall, "if one of the younger students turns out to be the winner at the end of the tasks. Of course, I should feel rather chagrinned if, after all our precautions, someone comes to harm."

"I don't know why the Ministry didn't listen to you, Albus," McGonagall complained. "It seems irresponsible, letting underage witches and wizards compete in the Tournament, precautions or not!"

Dumbledore shrugged slightly, a gesture of long-suffering wisdom ignored. "More knowledgeable men than I have had their say, Minerva."

McGonagall snorted in contempt. "Bah," she said, dismissing the idea. "And then they will hold you responsible if something goes wrong! I expect you'll do things your own way, as always, and pay them no mind."

Dumbledore chuckled. "It astounds me how well you know me, Minerva. I — aha!" he said suddenly, looking up into the eastern sky and raising his voice for all to hear. "Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbaton approaches!"

Students were looking in every direction, but eventually the enormous powder-blue carriage carrying the students from Beauxbatons was in plain view, pulled by a dozen large winged palomino horses the size of elephants. It landed jarringly on the field before the assembled students; Headmistress Maxime and her students disembarked and she and Dumbledore exchanged greetings.

"She's a tall one," Fred remarked, looking at Maxime as she and her young charges passed through the throng of Hogwarts students and up the stone steps leading to the front entrance of the castle. "D'you reckon she's got some giant blood in her, George?"

"Seems likely," George concurred. "She looks as tall as Hagrid, though she's a fair sight less hairy than him!"

They both stared after her so long I wondered if they were planning something devious. "Going to try for the Hogwarts champion's slot, gentlemen?" I asked, as I sidled up beside them.

"Oh, hi, Professor Monroe," Fred said. "Course we are!"

"Weasley honor is at stake, after all," George added.

"And Gryffindor's," Fred put in. "We can't let the Hufflepuffs have it without a fight, at least."

"I would have thought you'd be trying to keep it from Slytherin house," I smiled.

George snickered and Fred said contemptuously, "None of that lot wants to put in the work they'll need to anyway, they just want the glory of winning it!" George nodded agreement with his brother.

"Cedric Diggory's the clear choice from Hufflepuff to try out for Hogwarts champion," Fred went on. "I'd even approve of him if I weren't going to win the spot."

"Or I," George added.

"What about Ron?" I nodded toward their brother, standing a dozen feet away, next to Harry. Other students were looking up in the skies, wondering when the Durmstrang delegation was going to arrive — it was beginning to get rather chilly.

Both twins rolled their eyes at my question. "Fortunately for Ron," Fred said, lowering his voice confidentially. "Dumbledore won't be letting fourteen-year olds participate."

"What about Harry?" I suggested. Fred and George looked at one another, then shrugged.

"Fortunately for _us_, Harry can't participate either," George said with a grin. "Otherwise, he'd probably have the best chance of winning the Tournament. Outside of us, of course," he added, modestly.

I opened my mouth to tease him, but stopped, listening as an odd noise suddenly assaulted our ears: an eerie, muffled rumbling and sucking sound that made me think someone was running a gigantic Hoover beneath the surface of the lake. At that moment Lee Jordan yelled and pointed toward the waters. The sound _was_ coming from the lake!

As we watched, a black, skeletal ship rose out of a whirlpool that had formed in the now-turbulent waters, with dim, misty lights gleaming from its portholes. Many of the students appeared overawed, but Dumbledore watched the ship glide toward shore with mild interest, as calm as if they were pulling up in one of the boats first-years rode across the lake in on their first trip to the school.

A gangplank thudded on the shore, and students began to disembark. The sun had set in the past few minutes, and they were silhouetted against the lights shining from the portholes of the ship. Unlike the Beauxbatons delegation, all of these students were dressed warmly in cloaks of dark, shaggy furs, except for the man who had led them off the ship; his furs were sleek and silvery, and he was tall and white-haired, like Dumbledore, except his hair was cut short; rather than a full beard, he wore a neatly-groomed, pointed goatee. Walking up the slope of the shore, Igor Karkaroff smiled heartily as he greeted the Hogwarts headmaster.

"Dumbledore! How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?" His voice was oily, _unctuous_ if you prefer to give it a less pejorative spin; his smile did not reach his eyes, as if his mouth was making the motions even if his heart was not in it, emotionally. He called for his students to follow; one in particular, Viktor, he seemed anxious to get into the warmth of the castle. As the young man passed Ron and Harry, both of them did a double take at him, and as Karkaroff led the delegation of students toward the school, I heard Ron whispering the name _Krum_ as we fell into step behind them.

Inside the castle, the Hogwarts students proceeded into the Great Hall while the students from the two visiting schools were introduced to the staff in the Entrance Hall, then went on to join the others. All of the staff members were present except for Filch and Hagrid; Dumbledore explained to everyone that the Care of Magical Creatures professor was taking care of Madame Maxime's Abraxan horses, stabling them and providing them with the single malt whiskey that were the horses' only drink. The members of the Hogwarts staff were formally introduced to Headmistress Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff.

I, as the junior member of the staff (just beginning my fourth year, I was still the newest professor there) was one of the last to be introduced to the two headmasters. Madame Maxime, towering head and shoulders over me, offered me a small smile and a hand larger than mine, ringed with opals on several fingers, to kiss. "_Enchanté, Madame_," I said, as I touched my lips to her long, thick fingers.

"_Il fait très bon de vous rencontrer, Professeur_," she replied, smiling even more. _It is very good to meet you, Professor_.

"_Merci, Madame_," I added, enjoying a rare opportunity to speak another language. "_J'espèrent que nous aurons l'occasion de parler encore, bientôt_." _I hope we will have occasion to speak again, soon_.

"Greetings, Professor Monroe," Karkaroff said, shaking my hand perfunctorily as Dumbledore introduced us. His icy blue eyes appraised me calculatingly. "Your headmaster tells me this is the beginning of your fourth year here at Hogwarts."

"That is true, Professor Karkaroff," I agreed.

Karkaroff gave a small smile. "Has he told you that has earned you some fame, of a sort? You are the first Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor at Hogwarts to survive the Dark Lord's curse, placed upon that position nearly 40 years ago, which has kept anyone from holding the job more than a year."

"I have heard rumors to that effect," I said, with a small shrug.

"Quite a remarkable feat," Karkaroff went on, "defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's curse. One wonders if perhaps fate has something interesting in store for you, Professor."

Before I could respond, however, Dumbledore spoke up saying, "Our other guests should be arriving soon, but it's time for the feast to begin." He gestured to the double doors of the Great Hall. "If our esteemed teaching staff would lead the way, please."

McGonagall took the lead, and we made our way up the center of the Great Hall, between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables (which, oddly, now seemed to be switched from their normal positions; the Ravenclaw table was next to the Gryffindor table instead of the Slytherin table), to take our places at the High Table. I noticed that Filch, the caretaker, had set out several extra chairs at the table: two to the right of Dumbledore's chair and three to the left. The staff took their places in their usual chairs, leaving the extra seats closest to Dumbledore's chairs empty for our new guests of honor. Dumbledore and the other two headmasters entered last, and as they entered the room the Beauxbatons students leaped to their feet, inviting some laughter from Hogwarts students.

I saw that the majority of the Beauxbatons students had sat at the Ravenclaw table, while most of the Durmstrang students had elected to sit at the Slytherin table; Krum and a couple of the other Durmstrang students were seated near Malfoy, who was talking eagerly with them. Further away, almost directly in front of me at the Slytherin table, was Dudley and his mother, both of whom were not looking happy. Nobody was looking their way except for me; I suspected Draco thought it more important today to cozy up to Krum than to annoy Harry. Either that, or he figured he could kill two birds with one stone by doing so, although it appeared Ron, not Harry, was more annoyed by Draco's smarminess. Dudley had glanced my way once, shooting me a venomous look, but was otherwise looked more interested in watching the still-empty golden plates, waiting for them to fill with food.

Dumbledore invited everyone to begin the feast, and we all tucked in. There was quite a variety of food at this feast, much more so than there had been at the start of term feast; the house-elves had gone all-out to provide a wide variety of dishes from France, Germany and other Eastern European countries, as well as Britain, for all the guests. I glanced down the table, amused to see that Headmistress Maxime had been seated next to diminutive Professor Flitwick who, even seated upon several pillows, barely reached Madame Maxime's elbow. On the opposite side, Professor Snape wore his usual dour expression as he slowly worked his way through a bowl of soup; McGonagall and Professor Sprout were engaged in quiet conversation, as were Dumbledore and Karkaroff. At the far end of the table, I saw Hagrid sidle in through the east door and slide into his seat at the far end of the table, then wave at Harry and Ron, who were nearly in front of him; his right hand was heavily bandaged.

A few moments later there was a small commotion between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables as one of the students from Beauxbatons, a girl with silvery white hair, pointed to one of the dishes on the Gryffindor table and asked Ron a question.

Ron gaped at her, openmouthed, then tried to speak, but apparently the sight of the girl had struck him dumb. Harry finally said something to her and the girl nodded and took the dish back to the Ravenclaw table, as boys at several tables followed her movements with intense interest. The girl, of course, was Fleur Delacour, and reason why she was generating such interest was the fact that she was part veela.

At that moment, unnoticed by most of the students, three more people entered the Great Hall, making their way along the north wall, past the Slytherin table, to take their places at the High Table on Dumbledore's left side. I glanced at the three of them as they passed me: an older wizard, walking stiffly, with short, gray hair severely parted down the middle, and a toothbrush mustache that made him look a bit like a wizard Adolph Hitler; a tall, blonde wizard with a smiling, jovial face and an easy, loping grace, despite his stout form; and finally, and surprisingly, a short, squat witch with a wide, jowled face and iron-colored curls, wearing a green tweed cloak over her robes. I had expected Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman, the first two men, but not the witch who had arrived with them — it was Dolores Umbridge!

She was looking around quite intently, and I suspected — well a couple of things. Umbridge, of course, being Fudge's Senior Undersecretary, would be a spy for the Ministry and, as I knew from the last novel, very much an opportunist; she was probably here to report back directly to the Minister for Magic the goings-on here at Hogwarts. Obviously, she would bear close watching.

At the end of dessert, Dumbledore stood again, and everyone became attentive. This was the moment everyone had been anticipating for the past two months—Fred and George were both leaning toward the High Table, their faces bright with concentration and anticipation. I looked across the four tables: every student there was watching the Hogwarts headmaster, I saw, at the Slytherin table, that even Dudley had nudged his mother and pointed forward, so she'd listen.

"For those of you who do not know them," Dumbledore was saying, "may I introduce Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation —" there was some polite applause "— and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports." More applause, much more enthusiastic, ensued. Bagman was a well-known former Quidditch player, and smiled and waved at the students as he was introduced, while Crouch had sat stiffly, not even acknowledging Dumbledore's introduction.

"Finally," Dumbledore went on, "there is Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge, acting as special liaison to Minister Fudge." I thought Dumbledore had a bemused expression on his face as he said this — it was pretty plain, at least to me, if not every other member of the staff, that she was there as Fudge's eyes and ears. There was a smattering of applause, which died almost immediately.

Dumbledore went on to explain the tasks of the Tournament and how they were to be judged, as Filch brought up a great wooden casket, encrusted with jewels, to the front of the Hall, setting it on the table in front the headmaster, who took out his wand and tapped the chest three times. The lid opened and Dumbledore reached inside, bringing out a large wooden cup, roughly hewn and unremarkable except for the blue flames already danced within the bowl. The lid of the chest closed and the headmaster placed the goblet on top of it.

"Anyone over the age of fourteen who wishes to enter the Tournament as a champion will write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the Goblet," Dumbledore went on. "Tomorrow night is Halloween, and the Goblet will return the names of the three students it has judged most worthy to represent their schools.

"The goblet will be placed in the Entrance Hall tonight, and I will be drawing an Age Line around it to prevent anyone under the age of fifteen from submitting their name."

Dumbledore looked back and forth across the Great Hall carefully. "Finally, I should like to impress upon all of you who wish to compete: this is not a matter to be undertaken lightly! Placing your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract, and you will be obliged to honor it. This will be the case whether you are of age or not — I had hoped we would limit the contest to those seventeen and older, but heads more politically astute than mine have prevailed upon that point."

I glanced over at the Ministry people to see if any of them had reacted to that barb; Crouch remained poker-stiff and unmoving, as if he hadn't even heard, while Bagman had the same easy smile he always seemed to wear. Only Umbridge turned sharply at Dumbledore's words. Out among the students there were murmurings and restlessness; I expected that many were anxious to get their names in the goblet as soon as possible.

"Therefore, be very sure you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name in the goblet," Dumbledore concluded. "Now, I think it is time for bed, so good night and pleasant dreams to you all." The students were dismissed.

As the students began to work their way to the doors of the Hall, I made my way down between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, greeting a few students who waved or called out to me. Most of the other staff had exited, along with Dumbledore and the goblet, through the east door and antechamber. I was going out through the Entrance Hall to make sure everything went smoothly as the students from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang converged there.

At the opposite end of the Hall I met Harry, Ron, Fred and George, who were talking with Hermione and Cho Chang, apparently about the very thing that Dumbledore had mentioned, an Age Line. "It's not that big a deal," Fred was saying, a bit impatiently. "An Aging Potion would make Harry old enough to cross the line, if he wanted to."

"But Professor Dumbledore would have thought of that!" Hermione objected, and Cho nodded agreement. They turned to me. "Right, Professor Monroe?" Hermione asked.

"Aging Potions aren't that hard to come by," I said, making my comment oblique. I wasn't going to encourage _or_ discourage anyone from trying anything.

"Who said I even _wanted_ to participate in the Tournament?" Harry said, pointedly.

"I would," Ron piped up. Fred and George both laughed, and Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Well, what's wrong with _me_ wanting to have a go at being Triwizard champion?"

"Oh, nothing," George said, blandly, "except you wouldn't last five minutes against the kinds of tasks you'd be up against, little brother."

"Such as?" Ron glowered, looking at his brother challengingly.

"Such as dragons," Fred said, in a low voice. Everyone looked surprised, and I shook my head slightly, smiling to myself. Fred and his twin always seemed to know more than anyone else what was going on at the school, even more than the teachers sometimes! I knew that dragons were to be the first task, but it was supposed to be a closely guarded secret.

"And how do you know _that_, Mr. Weasley?" I asked, giving him a penetrating look. Fred and George both grinned at me.

"It's a trade secret, Professor," Fred answered, with a wink. "If I told you I'd have to kill you. No offense, of course."

"None taken," I chuckled. We were at the doors of the Great Hall; Karkaroff and his group of students were approaching, and Harry stopped at the door, to let them go through first.

"Thank you," Karkaroff said, throwing a careless glance toward Harry as he started through the doors, but he stopped abruptly, turned, and peered closely at Harry. His students did so as well, and one of them, a boy with food stains on the front of his robes, nudged a girl beside him and pointed at Harry's forehead, where a draft of wind from the Entrance Hall had pushed his hair back.

Karkaroff stood there so long, staring at Harry, that I finally said impatiently, "Yes, Professor Karkaroff, this is Harry Potter."

Karkaroff tore his eyes away from Harry's forehead to look at me. "I —" he began to say, but cut himself off. "Come," he said to his students, and they swept through the door into the Entrance Hall and out the front door, returning to their ship.

"What was all that about?" Ron asked, as other students began filing past us again. "He looked awfully surprised to see Harry."

"He's a Death Eater," I said," and both Hermione and Cho gasped.

"You mean, a former Death Eater, don't you, Professor?" George asked. "How could a Death Eater be headmaster of a school?"

"Some people don't think you can _ever_ be a former Death Eater," I replied. "Voldemort wouldn't allow it." Everyone standing nearby flinched at my mention of the name, with the exception of Harry and Hermione.

"But he's still powerless, isn't he?" Fred pointed out. "He hasn't tried to muck about round here in more than a year."

"That's true," Harry said. He made a point of glancing at his watch. "I suppose he's about due, isn't he?" Everyone laughed, with the exception of Hermione, who gave him a reproachful look.

"Don't say that, Harry!" she exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips and giving him a _don't-be-so-flippant_ look. "We can't afford to let our guard down!"

"Wise advice, Hermione," I said, glancing at Harry with a _she-told-you_ look. He gave me a deadpan look in reply. "But now, it's time to take Dumbledore's advice and head for bed," I added, gesturing them all through the door, and we joined the other students walking up the main staircase and to our respective rooms for the night.

***

For the next twenty-four hours the Entrance Hall was a rather hectic place. By early the next morning, the goblet had been placed in the center of the room, sitting on top of the Sorting Hat's stool, and there was a golden, glowing circle drawn in a ten-foot radius about it — the Age Line.

Students were already milling about the room when I came out of the Great Hall after breakfast, having decided to come down early even though it was a Saturday morning. Conversations were along the lines of who from Hogwarts would put their name in, who had already done so, and so on. Fred, George and Lee Jordan already had, it appeared, from their smug looks as they stood about, munching on bits of toast.

Harry and Ron were there as well, watching the activities; Ron had a dour expression on his face, while Harry appeared calm and perhaps even bored by the whole thing. I approached them silently, saying "Good morning, gentlemen," when I was only a foot away. Ron jumped, startled, but Harry merely said, "Good morning, Professor Monroe," without turning around.

"Gave me quite a start, Professor!" Ron said breathlessly. He glanced at Harry, then looked at me shrewdly. "So, what do you think about this age restriction thing, Professor — is it fair of them to keep under-fifteens out of the Tournament?"

"The minimum age would have been seventeen if Dumbledore had gotten his way, Ron," I said mildly. Ron's eyes widened in surprise, and I wondered whether he heard Dumbledore mention that last night, during the feast.

"That would've kept Fred an' George out," he muttered. "They would not have been happy about _that_!"

Hermione and her friends Padma, Mandy and Cho came down the staircase, all chattering with each other at once. They nodded at me, then walked right past Harry and Ron and into the Great Hall. I watched Harry follow Hermione with his eyes, seemingly a bit surprised he hadn't even rated a "Hello" this Halloween morning.

Ron looked at him, not doing a very good job of keeping the smirk off his face. "Must've not seen you," he offered unconvincingly to Harry, who scowled at him.

"Let's get some breakfast," he said. "Excuse us, Professor." I nodded, and the two of them went into the Great Hall. I moved off to a corner where I could observe both the staircase and doors to the Great Hall, in order to watch the activity during the day. There was a steady stream of students in and out of the room, up and down the staircases, as Angelina Johnson, Cormac McLaggern, Roger Davies, Alan Summerby, Cedric Diggory, Crispin Warrington and Adrian Pucey all put their names in over the course of the next few hours. At one point the front doors opened and Madame Maxime entered, followed by all of her students, and they lined up and placed their names in the goblet one by one, then swept outside again, followed a few moments later by Ron, Harry and Hermione. Harry paused at the door, saying the words "Going to see Hagrid," under his breath. I nodded, having heard him clearly, and whispered "Have fun," in reply. Then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

At one point that morning, the room was actually clear of all students, and I wandered over to look at the goblet more closely. There was nothing special about it, really — it was a large wooden goblet, roughly carved. What made it unusual was the dancing blue-white flames within the bowl of the goblet. There were no slips of parchment visible within the flames, not even any ashes. I wondered, idly, how many students had placed their names in it already. It would not have been hard to find out — I knew spells that would compel the information from the goblet. But that would kill the enjoyment of anticipating who the choices might be. Bored with waiting in the Entrance Hall, I went to get lunch, then retired to my room to read up on the history of the Tournament until the feast that evening.

The Halloween feast that night seemed to take longer than usual, perhaps because we'd just had a feast the night before. More likely, though, it was because everyone was on pins and needles over the impending choices for the Triwizard champions. The goblet had been moved once again, from the Entrance Hall to a spot in front of the Headmaster's chair. Students kept leaning forward in their chairs, craning their necks to see whether Professor Dumbledore was finished eating or not. Headmasters Maxime and Karkaroff both looked tense and expectant. Even the three Ministry representatives were not immune to the atmosphere: Ludo Bagman was beaming about, waving and winking at various students, and Crouch was talking earnestly with Professor Dumbledore. Only Dolores Umbridge sat quietly in her chair, sedately feeding herself as her small, beady eyes watched everyone and everything in the room most carefully.

After the golden plates were cleared, Dumbledore stood and looked about the room, which became immediately silent. "The goblet is almost ready to make a decision," the headmaster remarked. "I estimate only a minute or so before it will inform us. When the champions' names are called, I ask them to please go to the chamber —" he pointed to the door in the east wall of the Great Hall "— to await instruction."

A few seconds later the blue flames of the goblet turned a fiery red, and sparks began to fly from it. Suddenly a tongue of flame shot into the air, and a charred piece of parchment was spit out of it. Everyone gasped. Dumbledore raised a hand in the air, and the slip of parchment fluttered down and into his grasp. As the goblet's flames turned blue-white again, the headmaster read the first name.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he said clearly, "will be Viktor Krum!"

The Great Hall exploded with applause. Krum stood up from the Slytherin table and made his way past the High Table and through the east door. Over all the applause came Karkaroff's voice, congratulating him.

Attention focused on the goblet again; its flames had once again turned red. A moment later another piece of parchment was disgorged, and Dumbledore caught it deftly in one hand.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," he announced, "is Fleur Delacour!"

A girl with silver-white hair stood, and I recognized her as the one who'd taken the dish from the Gryffindor table during yesterday's feast. Harry was nudging Ron, probably reminding him of that fact as well. Fleur smiled and stood, then quickly walked to the top of the room and disappeared through the east door, while several other Beauxbatons students dissolved into tears after losing their bids to be champion.

The goblet disgorged its third and final name, and Dumbledore held his gaze for a long moment before announcing it to the room.

"The champion for Hogwarts," he said, smiling, "is Hermione Granger!"

The Ravenclaw table exploded into applause, and the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables as well. The Slytherins managed a feeble smattering of clapping. I could hear Harry whooping with delight, and I applauded as vigorously as the other staff members.

Hermione stood and walked briskly toward the High Table, where a beaming Dumbledore clasped her hand in both of his. As we all watched, she walked through the east door and out of view. The applause and cheering for the Hogwarts choice, however, went on for quite some time.

At last, after Dumbledore had signaled for quiet for nearly a minute, the noise died down enough for him to speak again. "Excellent!" he said. "Now that the three champions have been chosen, I am sure I can count on all of Hogwarts, as well as the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to cheer on your champion with every ounce of enthusiasm you can muster. By cheering on your champion, you will —"

But Dumbledore stopped speaking suddenly, and as he turned everyone in the Great Hall saw what had distracted him. The flames inside the Goblet of Fire had turned red again, and a long flame shot up, spitting out a _fourth_ slip of parchment. The entire Hall had gone completely silent, and Dumbledore reached up wordlessly to pluck the slip out of the air, then stared at the name written upon it.

There was a long pause, as Dumbledore looked at the name, cocking his head at one point, as if reading from a slightly different angle would make any more sense. He looked over at me — no, not exactly; his eyes were beginning to sweep the High Table. He turned, looking at the Gryffindor table, then his eyes ranged across all four tables, and he took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and read the name —

"_Dudley Dursley_."


	11. The Final Task

**Author's Note: At over 25,000 words, this is probably the longest fan fiction chapter I've yet written, over half the length of a NaNoWriMo novel, in less than three weeks (since chapter 10 went up). It had to be long since it encompasses the events of chapter 17 through 34 of Goblet of Fire, though what happens here is much different than in canon.**

_Ex Machina II  
_**Chapter 11 – The Final Task**

"_Dudley Dursley_."

As Professor Dumbledore spoke the name, the Great Hall became suddenly, eerily silent. Every eye in the room turned toward the large blond boy at the Slytherin table in astonishment. Even many at the Slytherin table looked surprised at hearing his name.

Dudley, for his own part, appeared unsurprised to hear his name called; in fact, his look was more one of smug confidence. Turning to Draco, he said, softly enough so that only those around him (and me) could hear: "Told you I'd get in, Malfoy."

"Maybe your name got called," Malfoy sneered, though too quietly for any of the other tables to hear, "but Dumbledore's not going to let you in the Tournament, Muggle-blood!" Malfoy's epithet was one I hadn't heard before — it must have been coined specifically for Dudley.

But if Professor Dumbledore had any intention of disallowing Dudley's nomination, he said only, "Mr. Dursley, will you join the other champions — through the door, please." He gestured toward the east door, where the other three champions had gone. His expression, normally placid and benign, looked positively stony.

Still smirking, Dudley lumbered to his feet and swaggered (though it was more like waddled) through the door without a backward glance. Almost the moment he disappeared, the Hall erupted with dozens of voices, the loudest ones being Headmasters Maxime and Karkaroff.

"What eez the meaning of thees, Dumbly-dore?" Maxime demanded, rising to her considerable height. "'Ow could zat — zat _child_ get his name into ze Goblet of Fire?!"

"Obviously Dumbledore's idea of a joke, Madame Maxime," Karkaroff observed silkily, his ice-blue eyes fixed upon the Hogwarts headmaster. "He cannot really expect us to agree to allow him to have _two_ champions in the Tournament, to only one apiece for the rest of us."

However, Dumbledore made no sign of having heard either of them. He'd turned to the Gryffindor table and was asking Harry Potter to come forward, his deep, measured voice carrying over the dozens of excited and cacophonous conversations about this unexpected event. Both Madame Maxime and Karkaroff, seeing Harry coming forward, also rose and walked around the High Table, moving toward Dumbledore; Professors Snape and McGonagall stood as well, falling in behind them, and I also elected to join the procession. From the corner of my eye I saw Bartemius Crouch, followed by Dolores Umbridge, rise from the High Table and come forward. Of Ludo Bagman there was no sign — he must've gone to explain the situation to the other champions.

We all arrived where Dumbledore was standing at more or less the same moment. Dumbledore put a fatherly hand on Harry's shoulder, drawing him close and speaking softly, trying to keep the conversation private. I, of course, heard him clearly, though I was farthest away from the headmaster. "Harry," he said quietly, though his tone was serious, "do you know how your cousin's name got in the Goblet of Fire?"

"No, sir," Harry replied, just as seriously. "He and I haven't spoken much since we returned to school."

"Come now, Potter," Snape said derisively. He had taken a position directly in front of Harry and Dumbledore. "Do you really expect us to believe you've had no part in this —" Dumbledore put up a hand, and Snape cut himself off, though his black eyes still watched Harry malevolently.

Dumbledore turned back to Harry. "Would you have any idea how Dudley could defeat my Age Line?" he asked; his tone inviting Harry to speculate. Clearly, he knew that Harry was probably capable of defeating his Age Line, if he wanted to.

But Harry only shrugged, refusing to be led. "I suppose, sir, the simplest way would be to get someone who was fifteen or older to put his name in the goblet." I chuckled softly at his reply, earning sharp looks from both Snape and McGonagall.

"Do you know something about this, Professor Monroe?" McGonagall asked tartly, her square eyeglasses flashing at me.

"No more than you do, Professor," I said, mildly. "But I could hazard a guess as to who might have put Dudley's name in the goblet." My eyes flicked briefly to the Slytherin table, then back to meet Dumbledore's, who nodded.

By now, most of the students were watching the impromptu meeting being held at the front of the Great Hall, and the room was quieting down rapidly, in hopes of catching some of the conversation taking place. Looking at the other headmasters and staff gathered about him, Dumbledore said, "I believe we should continue this with the other champions present, as the outcome could affect all of them." He turned to the Slytherin table. "Mrs. Dursley, I would like you to be present when we talk to your son." He gestured toward the east door.

Petunia, looking startled, slowly rose and walked stiffly to join the group as we walked through the door into the room beyond, one lined with portraits of witches and wizards and containing a fireplace; a warming fire was crackling heartily in it. Just inside the door was Ludo Bagman, who turned and looked at us with bewilderment and frustration written across his face. In the middle of the room stood Dudley, arms folded across his chest, staring challengingly at the other three champions standing closer to the fire. Viktor Krum, standing somewhat apart, stared broodingly into the fire; he barely looked around as we entered. Fleur Delacour and Hermione turned to watch as everyone entered.

"What's going on?" Hermione asked. "Why did your cousin follow us in here, Harry? He says he's the fourth champion. What does he mean?"

"His name came out of the Goblet, too," Harry replied.

"_What_?" Fleur said, sharply. She looked at Madame Maxime. "Zat must be a mistake. 'E is too young to compete!"

"That is what I was led to believe, Fleur," Maxime said, looking at Dumbledore, then at the Ministry officials. "But apparently zat is _not_ ze case."

"The age restriction was never imposed before," Bagman pointed out. "The Goblet would not have chosen based on anyone's age. As it stands, none of the champions can duck out at this stage."

"Nonsense," Karkaroff sneered. "Viktor doesn't have to put up with this kind of grandstanding. We can and will withdraw from this travesty —"

"I am old enough to speak for myself, Headmaster," Krum interrupted, stepping away from the fire to face Karkaroff directly. "I do not wish to withdraw from the Tournament."

"But this boy should not compete —" Karkaroff began, but Krum shook his head.

"That is not your decision to make, sir," he said, flatly. I saw that Harry, Hermione, and even Dudley himself were looking at Krum with some surprise. I would not have expected the Durmstrang student to take Dudley's side in this, though of course he was right. "All of us made the choice to compete in this Tournament. If this young man has the courage to stand with us, who am I — and who are _you_, Headmaster — to deny him that opportunity?"

"Even though zat gives Hogwarts _two_ champions, to our one!" Madame Maxime said, her tone one of outrage.

"My point exactly!" Karkaroff added, nodding emphatically.

"A minute ago, Headmaster, you were ready to walk away from the entire Tournament," I pointed out. "What does it matter if you have only one champion, if you were willing to make it none?" Karkaroff glared at me.

"The rules are clear," Mr. Crouch spoke at last. Standing furthest from the fire, looking toward the door to the Great Hall, his face was cast in eerie, flickering shadow, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. "The people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire _must_ compete in the Tournament."

"Then I _insist_ that our schools be given the chance to resubmit our students' names to the Goblet," Karkaroff said, his voice now cold and hard, devoid of any unctuousness. "We will continue adding names until each school has two champions, just as Hogwarts does."

"No," said Dumbledore simply. He handed the slip of charred parchment, which had come out of the goblet bearing Dudley's name on it, to the Durmstrang headmaster, who stared at it, puzzled, for several moments before comprehension dawned.

"Ah," he said at last. "I see. Karkaroff handed the slip of parchment to Madame Maxime, who stared at it as well, frowning. "But surely, Dumbledore, the Goblet was meant only to select students from our three schools — _why_ would it select a student from another one?"

"Can I see that parchment, Madame Maxime?" I asked her, holding out my hand, and she passed it to me. On it I read, "_Dudley Dursley — Smeltings_."

Dumbledore looked at me. "Any thoughts on that, Professor Monroe?"

"Interesting," I said. I could feel magic emanating from the slip. There was a powerful Confundus Charm on it. "Someone enchanted this slip of parchment, hoping to fool the Goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Apparently it succeeded in doing so." On a hunch, I walked over to Petunia and handed her the parchment slip. "Does that handwriting look familiar to you?" I asked.

She looked at me, an expression of great dislike on her face. "Yes," she said curtly. "It's Dudley's handwriting. So?"

"He could not have put it into the Goblet," I told her, taking it back. "An Aging Potion would not have fooled the headmaster's Age Line, for example — it doesn't really age you, after all; such a potion only permanently changes your appearance so you look older." I saw Dudley scowl as I said this; he had obviously considered such an approach himself. Only the fact that he probably couldn't procure such a potion in time had kept him from trying it himself.

"I could so have put my name in!" Dudley insisted, speaking up at last. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am, Professor!"

"I didn't say you were stupid, Dudley," I countered, though I didn't want to get into an argument with him in front of everyone in the room. "But you obviously didn't cross the Age Line — several underage students did try and had to be treated by Madam Pomfrey."

"Well of _course_ I put his name in," Petunia said suddenly. "That couldn't have been very hard to figure out."

"Mum —!"

"It's alright, Duddykins," Petunia said, soothingly, and I saw Dudley wince at his mother's use of her pet name for him. "It was brilliant of you to suggest I do that, after all—a clear sign that you're more than ready to take part in the Tournament!" In spite of his mother's praise, however, Dudley did not appear very happy with what she'd said.

"Interesting," a small, girlish voice spoke, and I turned to see Dolores Umbridge, a wide smile fastened across her toad-like face. "I'm sure Minister Fudge will be fascinated to hear about the 'methods' being used to teach here at Hogwarts — deception, intimidation and outright favoritism."

"There are no such things going on here," McGonagall rounded on the squat Ministry woman. "A student who oversteps his bounds must be disciplined!"

"Oh, I quite agree, Minerva," Umbridge said, her bulging eyes gleaming in the flickering firelight. "But there seems to be a serious _lack_ of discipline here."

McGonagall's face flushed with anger, and she appeared on the verge of making a retort when Dumbledore spoke. "We shall certainly do everything in our power to rectify any such omissions in discipline we find at the school, Madam Undersecretary.

"At the moment, however, our course seems clear," he continued, as McGonagall's mouth set in a thin line and her glasses flashed furiously. "Mr. Crouch has provided us with a clear ruling about the champions, and as for young Mr. Dursley's age —" Dumbledore shrugged almost imperceptibly.

Ludo Bagman grinned. He'd looked worried during the discussion, as if somehow the Tournament would be put off or canceled, and was now excited it would continue. "Shall we crack on, then? Barty, old man, will you give our champions their instructions for the first task?"

Crouch, who'd seemed lost in thought, looked up as Bagman finished speaking. "Yes, the instructions," he said, slowly, moving forward to face the four champions. Dudley stepped forward to stand beside Fleur and Hermione, and faced the Ministry head as he began to speak.

"The first task will test your daring," he told them, and I saw Hermione flash a quick smile at Harry, who smiled back. "You will not be told what the task is, however — that will be part of the task, to test your courage in the face of the unknown. It is a very important quality in a wizard, courage — very important…

"The first task will take place on November twenty-fourth, in front of your fellow students, the staff, and the panel of judges. You may not ask for nor accept any help of any kind from your teachers, to complete the first task. You will be armed only with your wand'

"At the end of the first task, you will receive information about the second task. Finally, due to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, champions are exempted from end-of-year tests (Hermione frowned upon hearing this, I noted with a small smile). I think that about covers it, Dumbledore," Crouch finished, without turning around. He walked away, out of the firelight, leaving the four champions standing there to consider what he'd told them. Krum, who'd already turned back to stare into the softly crackling fire in the fireplace, seemed least affected by what Crouch had said. Fleur and Hermione looked at each other, then Fleur walked gracefully over to Madame Maxime and Hermione ran to Harry, leaving Dudley standing alone.

Dumbledore, who had turned to the other headmasters now that the situation was more-or-less resolved and said cheerfully, "I hope both of you — _all_ of you, that is," he added quickly, including the rest of the staff present, "will join me in a drink before we retire for the evening."

"I think not, Dumbledore," Crouch said, moving toward the door. "I must get back to the Ministry. I left young Weatherby — or Weasley, whatever his name is, in charge. He's very enthusiastic…a little _too_ enthusiastic, if truth be told…"

"Oh, Barty," Bagman said cajolingly. "Don't be such an old stick in the mud! It's all happening here at Hogwarts, you know — much more exciting here than back there!"

Crouch snorted. "I leave you to it, then, Ludo," he said, looking a bit impatient with the younger man. He turned to Umbridge. "Shall we go, Madam Undersecretary."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Crouch," Umbridge said, simpering, and followed him from the room. Dumbledore watched them leave as well, then turned to speak to Madame Maxime, but she and Fleur were leaving together as well, talking rapidly in French undertones. Wordlessly, Krum walked from the room, with Karkaroff following him, and a moment later Petunia took Dudley by the arm.

"Excuse us," she said, icily, and marched out the door, leaving only Dumbledore, Harry and Hermione, McGonagall, Snape and myself in the room.

"Headmaster, Professors," Snape said to Dumbledore and McGonagall, and spared me but a curt nod as he left the room as well; he ignored Harry and Hermione completely.

McGonagall stared after him a moment before turning back to Dumbledore. "Well, _that_ was a delightful evening," she said with heavy irony. Dumbledore smiled at her turn of dark humor.

"It _was_ quite delightful for most of the evening," he added, looking at her with twinkling blue eyes. "And we know some things now that we didn't know before."

Hermione looked at Harry, and I could see concern in her eyes, both for him and, surprisingly, I could sense, for Dudley as well. I had already seen concern in Harry's eyes for his cousin. Despite the rift between them since Dudley had gained magical powers (which, I recalled with mild chagrin, had been primarily my doing), Harry still felt guilt over Vernon Dursley's death.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore was saying, smiling at her, "I suggest you return to Ravenclaw Tower — I am sure your fellow Ravenclaws are waiting to celebrate your championship with you. Once again, well done!"

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione was beaming excitedly. "Would it be alright if Harry escorted me back to the tower?"

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore nodded graciously, and the two of them turned and walked toward the door, as Hermione began describing everything that had happened after the champions left the Great Hall, before Harry arrived. As they walked out, Harry glanced back at me, as if he'd wanted to say something. But the next moment they were through the door and gone.

"When did they start keeping company with one another?" I jumped a bit, startled; Dumbledore was at my elbow, listening as the pair made their way across the now-empty Great Hall on their way to the party in Ravenclaw Tower.

"I, uh, think it happened over the summer," I said, not wanting to admit I'd seen most of it happen, building up over the past couple of years. I would never say so to Dumbledore, but I had been right to give Harry the opportunity to start learning wizardry early, and to encourage his training despite Dumbledore's reluctance to make certain facts known to Harry. Because he had known what he would be up against, Harry was now one of the best educated, best trained wizards in Britain, though he'd never gotten an award for educational excellence or meritorious school conduct.

I glanced at Dumbledore; he was looking at me, a bemused expression on his face. "I'm glad Harry is getting the opportunity to enjoy himself," he said, softly. "It seems like he hasn't had a quiet moment since he arrived here at Hogwarts."

"Not really," I agreed. "Neither have any of us, really."

Dumbledore looked around. McGonagall had left as well, going out the other door, the way the staff normally used to return to their private quarters. "It looks as if everyone else has gone to bed, or to celebrate," he said, scratching the end of his long, crooked nose. "Can I tempt you with a nightcap before turning in, James?"

"Certainly, Albus," I said, gesturing toward the door. "After this evening, I think we both can use it."

***

It was a little over three weeks until the first task, and the entire school was working itself into a frenzy of anticipation. Rumors abounded about the nature of the first task, how difficult it would be, and which of the champions were likely to do best at it (or even survive the experience, depending on whom you talked to).

A few days after the champions were chosen, Colin Creevy arrived during my fourth-year Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff double class to ask that Hermione come down for some photographs.

"Of course," I said, smiling, remembering in the original story how vexed Snape had been, having to let Harry out of his double Potions class early. Hermione, smiling shyly, gathered up her books and notes, stuffing them in her rucksack and following Colin out of the classroom.

"It would be _soooo_ exciting, being a champion," Padma Patil sighed, watching her leave.

"_If_ you could handle it," observed Ernie Macmillan. "I still think Cedric would have been the better choice for Hogwarts."

"Of course you do," sniffed Mandy Brocklehurst, another of Hermione's friends. "But _you_ didn't make the decision — the Goblet did."

"But the goblet also chose that Dursley kid," Megan Jones, a Hufflepuff, pointed out. "It's not infallible, obviously."

"Professor," Lisa Turpin asked me, "why do _you_ think the goblet chose Dudley Dursley?" I smiled; Miss Turpin's question sounded innocent, but I was sure that she, along with many of her fellow Ravenclaws, were aware that there was a connection between me and the ex-Muggle. What they did not know was that a Fidelius Charm had been placed upon the knowledge of how Dudley and Petunia Dursley's magical powers had come to be, cast by Professor Dumbledore, who was the spell's Secret-Keeper, shortly after they arrived at Hogwarts. His stated reason was for their protection, but I believed he also wished to conceal the destruction of the only Philosopher's Stone ever created, perhaps to serve as a red herring for Voldemort to pursue without success. Perhaps to keep Nicholas Flamel and his wife, Perenelle, from learning of its final disposition. Flamel and Dumbledore had agreed, he'd said, that the Stone should be destroyed, but I had used it in a specially-prepared potion that granted any Muggle that drank it magical ability. Dudley had gone even farther, giving half of the potion to his mother Petunia, who gained magical ability as well.

Of course, if Flamel and his wife were going to die anytime soon after they stopped using the Stone, a Fidelius Charm would have been unnecessary. The fact that Dumbledore had put one in place was yet another interesting morsel of information surrounding the headmaster, one I had filed away for future reference at the time.

"The Goblet must have had its reasons, Miss Turpin," I told her. "But I am sure it did not tell them to _me_." She and the other Ravenclaws looked at each other, probably wondering whether my statement held a deeper meaning. It was common among Ravenclaws to look for hidden meaning in most things people said, whether intentional or not. That often amused me, for as the old song said, sometimes "a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh." Even Hermione sometimes did it, looking for deeper meaning in the things people around her said, though being around Harry, and especially Ron, she had learned that people sometimes said nothing more or less than what they meant.

"Tell you what," I said suddenly. "I'll dismiss class early —" The Ravenclaws all looked disappointed, though the Hufflepuffs beamed excitedly — "but anyone who wants some extra credit can write me at least eighteen inches on the history of the Goblet of Fire in the Triwizard Tournament." There was a shuffling and thumping throughout the room — books were thrown into rucksacks and chairs scraped across the floor as the class scattered while it had its chance at freedom. In less than a minute the room was clear of students. I smiled, locking up the room, then went down to have an early dinner and an evening in the Library catching up on back issues of _Defender Quarterly_, a periodical devoted to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

In later classes Hermione told us about meeting Mr. Ollivander and his "weighing," or checking, of their four wands for proper functioning. All of the wands passed Ollivander's testing: Viktor Krum's Gregorovitch wand, made of hornbeam and dragon heartstring, ten and a quarter inches, thicker than usual and quite rigid; Fleur's wand of rosewood and veela hair (one of her grandmother's, Fleur had told them), nine and a half inches and inflexible; Hermione's, made of vine wood and dragon heartstring, ten and three quarter inches, and very flexible. Finally, there was Dudley's wand, which he had obtained from Ollivander shortly after gaining his magical ability: it was hawthorn and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, and quite stiff. Hermione also described the photography session held after their wands were checked, and how Rita Skeeter, the reporter writing about the Tournament for the _Daily Prophet_, had tried to imply there was some type of involvement between her and Viktor Krum, a rumor that became much more widespread after the article and photographs were printed in the paper.

At some point after the champions' wands were weighed, rumors about the first task began spreading and multiplying like wildfire. Whether someone had made a careless remark, or some student had managed to coax a hint from one of the teachers, the fact that the staff knew what the first task would be started a subtle tug of war between the student body and teaching staff; the Ravenclaw students, in particular, as the most intelligent and inquisitive House overall, began trying to inveigle teachers into admitting details about the first task.

The staff knew, of course — we could hardly _not_ know, given that certain individuals needed to know what areas of inquiry might reveal whether students had come by privileged information. Hagrid, for example, as Care of Magical Creatures professor, was aware that various dragons were being brought to Britain as part of the first task. In fact, he practically quivered with excitement at the staff meetings while discussing them. Hagrid held a special fondness for dragons, having always wanted to own one (and had, for a short time during Harry's first year).

Dumbledore was always quick to admonish everyone that teachers were not to give out advance information to students, especially students who were friends with the champions. This was also deliberate, as it turned out; the fine arts of subterfuge and espionage were also in play as an integral part of the Tournament. During the weeks preceding the first task, I avoided the presence of Harry and Hermione outside of class; I did not want anyone to have cause, reasonable or otherwise, to suggest that I had given information to Harry or Hermione. Besides, I knew, in the original storyline Hagrid had spilled the beans to Harry about the dragons; I couldn't expect the exact same thing to occur in this alternate version of events, but I thought something similar would happen.

The Sunday before the first task, I was in the Library's Restricted section, perusing some of the more obscure tomes there in order to prepare an advanced "reading list" for Harry and Hermione's O.W.L. studies the following year. Harry had already progressed well into N.E.W.T.-level spells and beyond, and it was becoming harder and harder to challenging him with material from the standard textbooks. Many of the texts in the Restricted section were quite horrible to contemplate — some were cursed, and others were quite disturbing to read, but many of them held fascinating information about areas of magic that were no longer considered viable avenues of research, though their theory was still tractable when investigated by someone of sufficient intelligence and reasoning ability.

In a corridor along a back wall in the section, I had discovered a text of ancient blood magic, made all the more interesting by one of the names listed as having signed it out: one Albus Dumbledore, with a due date back of 10 May 1895. Reckoning back, this would have been during Dumbledore's third year at Hogwarts. I began thumbing through the book, and was immediately impressed with the difficulty of the subject matter; blood magic was an obscure field, even then; it had largely been supplanted by "modern" potioneering techniques at that time. This was, I theorized, a book that had helped Dumbledore go on to eventually discover the twelve uses of dragon blood.

There was a sudden _thump_ nearby, and I looked around for its source, but there was no one in the aisle with me; the section was so dimly lit that if I weren't capable of seeing in complete darkness I might have missed someone standing right next to me. I quickly realized, however, that the sound had come from the other side of the book case I was standing next to.

I had never bothered to investigate all the nooks and crannies of the school; I'd never had the need, as I could see anywhere inside the castle I wanted to, just by focusing my perception on that location. Therefore, I did not know what part of the castle was on the other side of the bookcase. As I looked, I saw a small spare classroom, with a dozen or so students' desks and a modest teacher's desk. It looked long unused; there was an empty cloak cupboard along the adjoining wall, and it was there I found the source of the sound I'd heard — to my surprise, I found Harry and Hermione sitting there, snuggled together beneath Harry's Invisibility Cloak.

Wondering if I had inadvertently stumbled across a private moment between them, I began to withdraw my attention, when Hermione whispered, "I wish you'd hurry up and tell me what all this secrecy is about, Harry. You've been acting strangely all day."

"I know, I know," Harry replied, in a placating tone. "I just don't want anyone to overhear us. Hagrid could get into trouble — well, even more trouble than he might already be in — if anyone finds out what he showed me last night…"

"You know I'm not going to tell anyone, you goose!"

Harry laughed softly. "I know it. But…" he looked at her almost shyly. "You may not want to know this, even though I think you should. I know how you are about following the rules and all…"

She gave a small, half-exasperated sigh. "Harry, just tell me."

"Okay," he said, grinning now that he had her hooked. "You remember when we saw Hagrid at Three Broomsticks, while we were in Hogsmeade yesterday?"

"Of course. So?"

"When you were ordering two more butterbeers from Rosemerta, Hagrid whispered to me to meet him at his cabin at midnight."

"Oh, I see," she said, an accusing tone seeping into her voice. "So _that's_ why you turned me down when I asked if you wanted to go for a midnight walk along the lake, then."

"Yes," he said, "but this was _important_ —"

"Oh, well, thank you very much!" she said, half amused, half annoyed. "Maybe next time I'll just ask Ron if he wants to go for a midnight walk!"

"I just mean that Hagrid seemed very excited when he was asking me to meet him," Harry added quickly. "Besides," he grinned, "you'll give Ron a case of the vapors if you ask him out — you know he still fancies you."

"I know," she shrugged. "Funny that he's spent all this time taking the mickey because he's sweet on me, but he still doesn't cotton on to what he's feeling."

"Anyway," Harry said, sounding uncomfortable with that subject, "Hagrid wanted me to wear the Cloak when I came to his cabin, so I figured something was up."

"Why didn't you just tell me that when he asked you?" Hermione asked, her eyebrows arched. When Harry looked embarrassed, she giggled and said, "Oh, go on, tell me what happened."

"Well, I went to his cabin, wearing the Invisibility Cloak," Harry said, looking relieved, "and he was dressed up in that awful hairy, brown suit of his, and that horrid yellow-and-orange checkered tie."

"Big date, then?" Hermione said, smiling broadly.

"Well, yeah, as it turned out, it was," Harry nodded. "He had me follow him over to the Beauxbatons carriage — I'd heard Madame Maxime talking as I came past the first time — and he knocked on the door. She was expecting him."

Hermione was giving him a quizzical look. "Why would Hagrid invite you along on a date with Madame Maxime, and you under your Cloak?"

"Well, I was getting worried about that, I can tell you!" Harry said, earnestly. "He said he was going to show her something she was going to enjoy — I thought I was going to end up as some kind of invisible peeping Tom, or something." Hermione tittered.

"We must've walked a mile or more around the edge of the Forbidden Forest," Harry went on. "I almost had to run to keep up with the two of them, they took such long strides. Finally, I heard some noise up ahead — it was men shouting instructions to one another. And then I peeked around Hagrid and saw — _them_."

"What?" Hermione asked, anxiously.

"Dragons," Harry breathed, and Hermione's eyes grew wide. "Four of them. Hermione, I've been reading about dragons for years, but actually _seeing_ them — full size! — they were amazing! They were huge, thirty feet tall, a couple of them, and when they reared back they must have reached fifty or more feet in height!"

"What kinds were there?" Hermione whispered, her eyes still big with wonder, I thought — or perhaps, fear.

"Charlie Weasley was there," Harry said, noting her expression with some concern. "He said they had a Chinese Fireball, a Welsh Green, a Swedish Short-Snout, and a Hungarian Horntail, probably the meanest one of the lot."

"And I've got to _fight_ one of those things?" Hermione said, her voice starting to turn shrill. "Bloody hell, Harry!"

"Charlie thought you'd just have to get around one, somehow," Harry said soothingly. He was smiling. "I don't know if I ever heard you swear before, 'Mione." I blinked; I'd never heard Harry call Hermione by that nickname, before.

"You never saw me go up against a dragon, either!" she said, feelingly. She looked at Harry, daunted by what he'd told her. "Oh, lord, Harry, I don't know if I can do this…"

"Of course you can," Harry said confidently, running his hand reassuringly along her arm and side. "You're the smartest witch of your age."

"Oh, pffft," she said. "Don't start with me, Harry Potter!" but she smiled engagingly as she said it. "You only say that because you know it strokes my ego."

"I like stroking your ego," Harry said, smiling, and I rolled my eyes slightly.

"I know you do," Hermione smiled back, putting her arms on his shoulders. "But before you do that, you have to help me figure out how I'm going to get past that dragon, come the twenty-fourth. From what you've said, Fleur will know about the dragons as well — Maxime will have told her."

"Karkaroff knows about them as well," Harry added, darkly. "I, er, ran into him as he was sneaking around the edge of the Forest. He must've seen the same thing Hagrid showed me and Madame Maxime. That means I've got to find a way to let Dudley know about the dragons, too."

Hermione looked at him a long moment. "Why would you do that?" she asked.

"It's only fair," Harry replied, insistently. "If the rest of us know, he should know as well."

Hermione smiled. "I love that about you, you know — how fair you are, even to someone who doesn't like you."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I'm going around giving Malfoy my class notes, you know." Hermione laughed.

They began discussing ideas about how to deal with the dragon, and I withdrew my perception. I replaced the book in the bookcase, having lost interest in it for the moment, and returned to my quarters. Fate had conspired in much the same way as in the original story to give the champions knowledge of the first task. Now, with just two days left, we would have to wait and see how things turned out. In the original story, once Harry had gotten his Firebolt, he was able to use his skill at flying to obtain the golden egg guarded by the Horntail in near-record time. I didn't know how that was going to help Hermione, however; she was not that good on a broom; even with Harry coaching her, she only flew acceptably well. There was little chance of her joining the Ravenclaw Quidditch team in the foreseeable future.

Two days later, at the appointed time, the school had assembled in the stands that had been magically erected just hours before, near where the dragons were being kept. A special section for Hogwarts staff and Ministry officials had been set up near the tent where the champions were gathered, and I watched with detached interest as the first dragon, the Swedish Short-Snout, was moved into position at the far end of the enclosure where the first task was to take place.

A whistle sounded, and the first champion, Fleur Delacour, walked out of the tent. She was shaking, though she covered it well, looking around at the crowd and waving as she sized up the situation. In spite of her being a competitor for the championship, there were a lot of Hogwarts students cheering for her — mostly males in the upper years, I noticed. Among the females, not so many.

Finally, Fleur shook herself, perhaps to shake off her nervousness, then she began, going right for the dragon and casting a hypnotic charm on it, one that was probably specially designed to work on dragons. It took some time and several tries, however, before the charm took effect; the Short-Snout was nervous and kept shaking its head to keep itself awake. Eventually, though, she got it to close its eyes and she tried to slip past it to take the egg. Fleur was nearly clear when the dragon snorted in its sleep, and a puff of flame shot out of its nose, catching her skirt on fire. The crowd yelled, and the dragon woke up with a jerk, as Fleur dashed away, spraying herself with water from her wand. All in all, I thought, not a bad performance. As they retired the Short-Snout and brought out the next dragon, the Chinese Fireball, the judges showed the marks for Fleur. She ended up with 38 points.

When Fleur had taken her place among the other Beauxbatons students, and the Fireball had taken the place of the Short-Snout, the whistle blew again. This time Viktor Krum emerged from the tent, looking as moody and detached as he had that evening in the antechamber where the champions had first gathered. Unlike Fleur, he did not look around, but stared directly at the dragon, his dark, brooding eyes fixed most determinedly on it. For its part, the Fireball watched him malevolently, its head swaying as it tracked him, as if it knew his purpose was to steal its eggs.

Krum moved suddenly, drawing his wand in one quick motion and shouting, "_Pupulus doleos_!" casting the Conjunctivitus Curse on the Fireball's eyes. The dragon roared, spewing fire into the air, and tried to claw at its face. Krum moved forward, feinting with a spell that made noise on the opposite side of the dragon, trying to draw it away from its eggs. The Fireball roared blindly at the sound, reaching out with its claws to swipe at the air in front of it, as Krum approached from the other side. Bagman was shouting commentary, his voice magically amplified, and the spectators were shouting as loudly for him as they had for Fleur.

In the original story, Sirius was going to suggest the Conjunctivitus Curse to Harry, but was interrupted by Ron before he could do so (Ron and Harry had been upset with one another at the time, as Ron believed Harry had put his name in the Goblet, but wouldn't admit it, and Harry thought Ron would automatically believe him when he said he hadn't). It was an effective tactic; temporarily blinded, the dragon was at a disadvantage (well, discounting for the moment that it outweighed Krum by several tons and had six-inch talons and teeth, and could breath fire). The problem was, the dragon wasn't moving away from the eggs, so Krum would have to approach dangerously close to grab the golden egg that was each champion's objective.

"Oh, oh!" Bagman suddenly shouted, "Look out, there! The Fireball's getting rambunctious!" The dragon had lurched forward at a sound made by Krum's wand, to distract it, but one of its claws had landed on its clutch of eggs, smashing several and scattering the rest. The golden egg skipped across the ground, and Krum dashed after it, shooting noise-making spells around to confuse the dragon. He scooped up the golden egg and ran to safety.

"A lucky break for Viktor Krum!" Bagman said, "but the rules state that the dragon's eggs should not be damaged during the task. That's going to cost him some points." If that fact bothered Krum, he didn't show it; he merely walked over to stand in front of the enclosure, to await the removal of the Fireball and his scores. Dumbledore, Crouch and Bagman all gave him eights, reflecting his overall good performance but deducting points for causing damage to the eggs; Madame Maxime shot a six into the air, judging him a bit more harshly, while Karkaroff, his headmaster, sent up a full ten, giving him 40 points and causing some grumbling among the spectators; it was clear that Karkaroff was favoring his student — the highest score anyone had expected was an eight. There was some applause for Krum, who then slouched into the stands with the other Durmstrang students to watch the final two champions compete.

With the next dragon in place, the whistle blew once again, and Dudley stepped hesitantly out of the champions' tent. The expression on his face, at his first view of the Welsh Green (the smallest of the four dragons on the field today, by the way) made it plain enough: he was terrified. Had Harry warned him about the dragons? I snorted — of course he had; while the Harry I knew was more pragmatic, more worldly than the canonical version, he was still Harry Potter and he still did what he said he would do. I wondered, though, whether that might have an unintended consequence; Harry warning his cousin about the dragons and the dangers they implied might make Dudley all the more determined to attempt the task. That is, until he saw what he was up against. Dudley had not moved since he stepped out of the tent and glimpsed the Welsh Green, snorting and roaring at him and at the crowd.

The spectators were getting restless, they were beginning to mutter and grumble. "Anytime you're ready, Mr. Dursley," Bagman said, gamely, from his perch on the master of ceremony's tower. But Dudley, his expression spare, wasn't moving at all. He looked like he was about to wet himself, in fact.

I was looking around the stands, trying to find Harry in them. If he spoke I could locate him instantly, from the spell that let me hear anything he said, no matter how softly, if I was listening for it. But he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was in the champions' tent, with Hermione, giving her encouragement. But then he would be talking, I corrected myself. So where was —

"I knew you couldn't do it," I heard Harry shout suddenly, tauntingly. My perception fastened on him instantly. He was near the opening of the champions' tent, right up in front in the stands, opposite of me, in an empty section of seats. Strange that I hadn't seen him earlier, unless…of course, he'd been wearing the Invisibility Cloak, in all probability. Now that I saw him, he was pretty conspicuous, because he was wearing robes of bright red and gold — Gryffindor's colors — beneath the heavy cloak he was wearing for warmth. He was shouting down at Dudley, his hands cupped in front of his face, and Dudley was staring up at him, shock and anger written across his own face.

Dudley turned back at the dragon, his expression grim, then drew his wand. I smiled; Harry's taunt had had the effect desired — Dudley was now determined to get past the dragon and prove how wrong Harry was!

That was going to be easier said than done, however. Dudley's first spell, a Stunning Charm, bounced harmlessly off the Green's hide, only making it angrier. It spit fire at Dudley, who dodged behind a large rock, looking scared again. He leaned out, firing an arrow from the tip of his wand, which bounced off the dragon's scales as well. Inexplicably, I was becoming indignant — had Hogwarts taught Dudley _nothing_ in the past three years about the ineffectiveness of most simple charms and hexes against a dragon's magical hide?

Finally, however, Dudley took careful aim and shot a Conjunctivitus Charm directly at the dragon's eyes, just as Krum had. The Welsh Green roared in pain, rearing back and spraying fire into the afternoon sky, then dropped back onto its forelegs. Dudley, who'd bolted forward to grab the egg, probably hoping to make a lucky grab and end the task quickly, stopped short, petrified, as the dragon began to stretch its neck out to grab him.

Suddenly, one of the dragon's legs buckled beneath it — either its foot had slipped, or the rocks it had stepped down on slid across one another. The dragon, off-balance, toppled to one side, and Dudley, who probably could not believe his luck, leaped forward, grabbed the golden egg and scrambled to safety as the Green, thrashing frantically, rolled back onto its feet, too late to grab the intruder who'd snatched one of its eggs. It roared its frustration, spouting thick flames toward the retreating figure, but Dudley had hightailed it out of range by then.

"Well, that was quite a show by Mr. Dursley," Bagman announced enthusiastically. "I think his was the fastest time so far, in fact!" As Dudley made his way back to stand in front of the enclosure, to await his score, I glanced back toward Harry, who was watching him as well. Catching his eye, I said softly, "That Welsh Green losing her footing like that was pretty convenient, wasn't it?"

Harry shrugged fractionally. "A lucky break for Dudley, I guess," he muttered in reply, though I heard him clearly across the expanse between us.

"Yeah, sure," I agreed quietly, smirking. It had looked more like a Slipping Charm, which reduced the surface friction of an object; I suspect if I checked the rocks the Welsh Green had been standing on when it slipped, I would find the remnants of that magical spell.

The scores for Dudley were posted by the five judges; Dumbledore gave him an eight, Crouch and Bagman each a seven, while Maxime sent up a six and Karkaroff, interestingly, sent up an eight, giving him a total of 36, the lowest score so far. Dudley was shaking his head in disgust at his scores, clearly expecting better numbers. After the total was put up, he stalked back to the stands to join his mother, who hugged him tightly and unabashedly, causing him more embarrassment.

When the last dragon, the Hungarian Horntail, was in place, the whistle blew a fourth and final time and a few moments later, Hermione Granger emerged from the champions' tent, dressed in robes of blue and bronze, Ravenclaw's colors, glancing nervously about at the cheering crowds and the great black lizard that now faced her, snorting and roaring angrily, across the enclosure. Bagman noted how poised and confident she looked — I frowned, knowing how close to terror she actually felt. At the same time, however, I was eager to see how she would approach this problem. In the original story, Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff champion, had transfigured a rock into a Labrador, then tried to entice the dragon into going for it while he went after the golden egg. Would Hermione try something similar?

She stopped a dozen yards beyond the tent she'd emerged from, near an outcropping of rock that mostly hid her from the Horntail's view, as well as from most of the spectators — it had been designed as a "rest point" in case the champion needed to temporarily retreat from a dragon's breath attack, though it was almost too far for any of the dragons' fire to reach. She glanced behind her for a moment, and I thought she might be looking back at Harry — I looked over to where he'd been, in the stands opposite me, but he was no longer there. He was probably back under his Cloak, but I didn't bother to check. At that moment, Hermione raised her wand into the air and shouted in a clear voice, "_Accio Firebolt_!"

What the hell? For a moment all conversation in the stands stopped as spectators looked at one another in astonishment. There was only one Firebolt at the school anyone knew about, and that was the one Harry Potter flew, in Quidditch matches! A moment later we heard, then saw it, as it soared over the edge of the forest and down into the enclosure, halting and hovering next to Hermione, awaiting her next move. The Horntail roared at that moment, and Hermione pointed her wand into the air, sending up a burst of fireworks that exploded spectacularly above the Horntail, creating for a moment a fiery image of the Horntail itself, and the crowd gasped, then oooh'ed and aaah'ed automatically at the display; everyone then began pointing and shouting excitedly, as the Firebolt zoomed into the air around the dragon — Hermione had used the distraction to mount the broom and kick off into the air, and was now flying round and round the Horntail as it lunged upward, time and again, trying to reach her. But she was flying as she'd never flown before.

"Good lord, this girl can fly!" Bagman yelled as the onlookers gasped and shrieked at the acrobatics being displayed. "Harry Potter must've been giving her private lessons! Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?" Private lessons, indeed! I thought, smirking.

There was a scary moment, about a minute into Hermione's task, when the Horntail swiped its tail as she flew past, just a little too close, and one of the spikes grazed her robes, near her shoulder. It was hard to tell how deep a cut it had made, if any; Hermione still flew with aplomb, zooming around behind the dragon, which turned with her, keeping itself between the small flying figure and her eggs.

Professor Flitwick, sitting a few rows ahead of me on the stands, suddenly rose to his feet, pointing toward the dragon. "What's happened to the egg?" he shouted in his high, squeaky voice. "The golden egg is gone!" There was uproar in the stands as people realized he was correct — the objective of Hermione's task was missing from the clutch of dragon eggs!

The Firebolt soared widely around the Horntail, coming in for a landing on the spot where she'd taken off, only a few minutes earlier. As she set down next to the outcropping, a burst of smoke shot up around her, enveloping her in its white billows. As it dispersed, a moment later, Hermione was crouched down on one knee, the Firebolt in her left and her right one beneath her. She stood, raising her right hand and holding aloft — the golden egg!

The crowd went mad as Hermione, beaming, turned slowly, displaying the egg to everyone present. "Can you _believe_ that?" Bagman shouted gleefully. "Can you believe what we just saw? Miss Granger turns in the quickest time of our four champions! And that was the most amazing display of flying prowess I've ever seen — with my apologies to Mr. Krum!"

"Cheers, Hermione!" I heard Harry say, and I looked over to where I'd seen him before, in the stands opposite me, clapping along with the other spectators. He raised an arm into the air in victory, grunting, then whooped and spun his fist in the air a few times.

The handlers moved the Horntail out of the enclosure, and the judges posted their scores: Dumbledore sent up a nine, Crouch a nine as well. Bagman sent up a ten, and Maxime shot an eight into the air. Karkaroff, the last to display his score, hesitated a few moments, then shot a four into the air, amid catcalls and hisses—his score was clearly biased against Hermione, but it had left her and Krum tied at 40 points apiece. Fleur was next, with 38, and Dudley last, with 36. All in all, the first task had ended up being rather close, with only a four-point spread from first to last place.

The Ravenclaws present scooped up Hermione and carried her away, cheering wildly, as the rest of the onlookers began to head back to the school. The Durmstrang contingent looked quite happy as well — Karkaroff was smiling widely enough for both him and Krum, who maintained his brooding expression, walking along silently as Karkaroff, arm around his shoulders, led him and his other students back toward their ship, presumably to celebrate as well. Fleur and the Beauxbatons students looked elated as well, led by a smiling Madame Maxime, who was probably glad to see such a close set of scores after the first task. I hadn't seen Dudley since he joined his mother after his task was complete.

I, making sure that all of the Hogwarts students were heading back to the school, was one of the last to leave. I found myself walking out with Harry, though I thought I'd seen him talking with Ron and some of the other Gryffindors, after the task. "All right, Harry?" I asked him, as we fell in step together.

"Yeah," he said, with a small shrug of one shoulder. "So, what did you think of Hermione's performance in the first task?"

"Pretty impressive," I remarked. "She can fly a lot better than I remembered," I added, casually.

"Well," Harry smiled. "I've been giving her private lessons, you know."

"Yeah, I heard a rumor to that effect," I said, dryly, and Harry raised an eyebrow at me. "You don't have to play the innocent with me, Harry," I told him. "I know what you and her have been up to."

"We're just good friends, Professor," Harry protested, mildly. "It's a bit too early for either of us to get involved with —"

"You forget I was with you two on those Mediterranean cruises this past summer," I reminded him, and he stopped protesting. "Besides," I said, "I was talking about _this_," and I pressed a finger into his shoulder, the one that the dragon had nearly caught Hermione by during "her" aerial performance earlier. Harry winced.

"That Horntail caught you pretty good, didn't she?" I said quietly, as Harry gingerly touched his shoulder. I could see now that a rivulet of blood had run down his arm and onto the back of his hand; a few drops fell to the ground as we kept walking. "I'd tell you to go see Madam Pomfrey to get that taken care of," I told him, taking out my wand, "but you might not want anyone to know about it."

"I was going to mend it once I got back to the tower," Harry said, through gritted teeth. "I have some dittany and —"

"Never mind that," I cut over him, tapping his shoulder with my wand. The cut mended immediately. "Just be a little more careful the next time you fight a dragon, okay?"

"Okay," Harry grinned. "Thanks, Uncle Jimmy."

Harry hadn't called me that in some time, and I smiled back at him. "Oh!" he said suddenly, realizing that we were literally the last two people walking back to the school. "I told Hermione I'd join her at the party afterwards — I'd better get a move on, before all the butterbeers are gone!"

"Okay," I said, but Harry didn't move. There was a look on his face that suggested he had something else to say. "Yes?" I prompted him.

"Hermione was worried that you or Professor Dumbledore would catch on to what we were doing," he said, slowly. "Now that you know, are you going to tell him how she got the egg?"

I exhaled slowly, thinking. "Well," I said, finally. "I think that if Dumbledore, or any of the other judges, figured out what you and Hermione were doing, they had their chance to speak up when they were posting her scores. The underlying rule of this Tournament seems to be, if you can get away with it, it's okay. I don't see any reason to go against that."

Harry nodded. "Good. Well, I better get going, Uncle Jimmy. Thanks again for fixing my shoulder, it feels good as new! See you!"

I nodded, and Harry waved and broke into a jog, disappearing around the curve of the path leading back to the school. I'd figured out what he and Hermione had done when Harry grunted in pain as he raised his arm to cheer Hermione after she displayed the egg she'd captured, and I mentally reconstructed the strategy he and Hermione had come up with — they'd used the distraction of the fireworks display Hermione had thrown up to exchange places under the Invisibility Cloak; then Harry, very likely Polyjuiced to resemble Hermione, took to the air to distract the dragon while Hermione, now under the Cloak, crept up and removed the golden egg from the clutch and returned to her starting point, where they exchanged places again under the smoke spell when Harry landed the Firebolt next to her.

Was that cheating? I wasn't too sure, either way. There was nothing in the rules saying no one could distract the dragon while the champion took the egg, and she was certainly allowed to use items other than her wand, if she could obtain them. On the other hand, the judges might not have approved a strategy that let two wizards double-team the dragon — it was supposed to be a one-person effort.

I was pleased to see that the two of them were able to work so well together — they had managed to pull off a stunt like that in front of the watchful eyes of Headmasters Karkaroff and Maxime, not to mention Albus Dumbledore! They would make quite a pair, I thought, when they were adults, assuming neither Ron nor Ginny caused any changes further down the timeline. For that, of course, I would just have to wait and see. _I_ certainly wasn't going to turn them in for it.

Classes for the next few weeks were filled with talk of how the four champions had done, how the judging had gone (and how it had gone awry, especially with Karkaroff's biased scoring) and, of course, the eggs. There were whispered conversations about the weird screeching sound the eggs made; even the staff had talked about it at meetings and while eating in the Great Hall. Officially, no teacher could comment on or even hint about what the high-pitched noise was, even to non-champions — the risk that the information would get back to one of them was just too high.

Near the end of the second week of December, as I sat in my quarters thumbing through the text on ancient blood magic I'd found in the Library's Restricted section a few weeks earlier (when I'd overheard Harry tell Hermione about the dragons) there came a knock at the door. "Come in," I said, closing the book, and was surprised when both Harry and Ron walked into my room.

"Hi, Uncle Jimmy," Harry said amiably, as he and Ron walked up and stood before me. I was instantly alert; Harry tended not to address me that way anymore, unless he wanted to soften me up for something he needed. "How's it going tonight?"

"Fine, just doing a little light reading," I said, hefting the leather-bound book in one hand. "What brings you two to my little home away from home tonight?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing," he said, casually. "Just hanging out."

I glanced at Ron, who suddenly had the look of a startled deer on his face. "And how are you doing tonight, Mr. Weasley?"

"F-fine, Professor," Ron said, beginning to swallow convulsively. Ron never did have much of a poker face.

Since I couldn't imagine there was anything else they might be here to talk about, I asked, "Has Hermione got that egg figured out, yet?"

"Well, _no_," Ron said, looking surprised. "That's kind of why we're h—"

"That's kind of why we're out tonight," Harry said quickly, cutting over what Ron was going to say. "We're mulling over ways for her to figure out what that sound means."

"Isn't she supposed to do that by herself?" I asked, matter-of-factly.

"Well, there isn't any rule that says _we_ can't help her, is there?" Ron spoke up, hesitantly. "I mean — we know the _teachers_ can't say anything…"

"Right," I agreed, then abruptly changed the subject. "Would you two like something to drink? Some hot chocolate, perhaps?"

Harry and Ron looked at one another for a moment. "How about some butterbeer?" Harry asked.

"Butterbeer?" I said, surprised, but then smiled indulgently. "Well, I'll have to check my private stores," I said, taking out my wand and waving it over the lamp table sitting next to my chair. Three chilled bottles of butterbeer appeared, and I tapped two of the caps, both of which popped off, and handed the bottles to Harry and Ron, taking the third one for myself. "Cheers," I said, holding out my bottle, and they each tapped it with theirs; we all drank gustily.

We talked for quite a while that evening, Harry, Ron and I, meandering around through various topics, but we always circled back round to the golden egg. Ron, especially, seemed quite keen to get me to offer up some clue, however obscure, that would help them figure it out. I was equally careful to squirm free every time he did so, partly because I wanted to know how things would play out in this timeline — Cedric Diggory wasn't a champion here, so he couldn't offer anyone a clue about taking the egg into the prefects' bath, to "mull things over" in the bath water, though it did amuse me, thinking about Diggory trying to talk to Hermione about taking the egg into a prefects' bath!

Finally, we'd gone through an entire case of butterbeer, eight bottles apiece, and both Harry and Ron were getting a bit drowsy; butterbeer wasn't alcoholic enough to make anyone drunk (except house-elves), but the ingredients tended to act like a mild soporific, if you drank enough. "I don' know why you can't say _somethin'_ about the golden egg, Professor," Ron was saying, his speech beginning to slur a bit, and he yawned hugely. "We're not going to tell anyone else, you know."

"Maybe that's part of the problem," I said seriously, looking at Harry, who from the look he gave me, knew exactly what I was referring to: _It's only fair_.

Ron shrugged, beginning to look bad-tempered. "I just _thought_ you'd want to support Hogwarts, Professor," he muttered, not looking at me. "You saw what a great job Hermione did on the first task, didn't you?"

My eyes were still on Harry, who hadn't reacted to his friend's praise of Hermione's performance. Either Ron was playing his cards close to his chest, or he had no idea of the role Harry had played in her performance. "Yes, I did see, Mr. Weasley," I responded. "And I would think that someone who was able to pull off such a well-executed plan of attack would want to figure out the riddle behind the golden egg on her own." That might have divulged too much itself, but I thought it was still vague enough to get by.

"Fine," Ron said, curtly. "Fine, then." He stood suddenly. "Well, I guess we've taken up enough of your time this evening, Professor." He drained the last bit of butterbeer in the bottle in his hand, then set it down on the lamp table next to his chair. "You coming, Harry?"

Harry nodded, but didn't get up. "I'll catch up in a minute, Ron." Ron stood there a moment, swaying slightly, then nodded, spun on his heel and stalked to the door of my quarters, closing it a bit harder than necessary — a few portraits on that wall looked around, startled, as the door slammed shut.

After he was gone, Harry turned back at me. "Sorry, Uncle Jimmy," he said, looking discomfited by Ron's rudeness. "He insisted we come down and have a word with you about the egg."

I shrugged. "You know I couldn't say anything, Harry — even if I _wanted_ to cheat and give you and Hermione the answer, you've got over two months before the next task. That's a lot of time to figure out the egg's clue."

"I know," Harry sighed, staring at his feet. "But Ron had a rather unrealistic fantasy of coming here and getting the answer from you, then going back and telling Hermione that he and I had wormed it out of you, and that she'd be grateful to him…"

"And you went along with that?" I asked, studying Harry for several moments. He was still staring at the floor, not looking me in the face. "Harry," I said. He looked up. "Ron has no idea about you and Hermione, does he?"

Harry shook his head. "I guess I thought he would figure it out for himself by now — I mean, we're doing everything but beat him over the head with it. But he just won't, just won't… accept…" His words trailed off, and Harry looked at me almost helplessly.

I spread my hands, a gesture of _what-are-you-gonna-do_, and said, "You'd better go find him, before he thinks you're trying to worm the secret out of me for yourself." Harry managed a smile at that.

"And don't worry about the egg," I said, standing along with Harry as he got to his feet to leave. "Things will sort themselves out before the next task."

Harry nodded, setting down his empty butterbeer bottle and crossing the room to the door. "Thanks for the butterbeers, Uncle Jimmy," he said, "And thanks for understanding about Ron." He slipped through the door and was gone.

I went back to the book I'd been reading, but only a few minutes had gone by before there was another knock at my door. _Who could it be now_, I wondered, glancing at a nearby clock on the wall — it was almost midnight. I might have easily checked with a simple magical spell, but decided to be surprised. "Come in," I said. The door opened, and indeed, I was surprised to see who was standing there.

Petunia Dursley.

"Hello, Petunia," I said, closing my book and standing as she walked stiffly into the room. She was radiating hostility, as usual, but I hardly gave that a thought anymore — Petunia had never liked me, even back in the "good old days," during my infrequent trips to number four, Privet Drive, back in Little Whinging. "What can I do for you this evening?"

She glanced around the room with the air of someone who would rather be anywhere else than where she was. "I've come to talk to you about Dudley," she said, not wasting any time.

I indicated a chair for her to sit in, but she didn't move. "His grades are fine," I said, sitting back down, then adding, "a little better than yours, in fact," as a small dig at her. "He'll probably do well this year, especially considering he's exempt from end-of-year tests, like the other champions."

"That's not what I meant," Petunia said, curtly. "I wanted to talk about him being in the Triwizard Tournament. Seeing him fight that dragon, I finally realized just how dangerous this tournament is."

I shook my head. "I'm not the one you need to talk to, if you want to get him out of it, Petunia. Crouch already said that everyone whose name came out of the Goblet of Fire had to participate, no exceptions. I can't get him out of it."

Petunia scowled at me. "Who said I wanted to get him out of it? I want you to protect him!"

I thought I must have misheard her. "Excuse me?"

"I want you to protect him," she repeated. "To help him. Not like those nasty boys in Slytherin who pretend to be his friends, like that Draco Malfoy. I think he's the one who got Dudley all worked up about being in this tournament in the first place. But he doesn't care what happens to my son — he's just doing it for his own selfish goals!"

I smiled humorlessly. "And Dudley's _not_?"

"Dudley wants to prove himself," Petunia said, beginning to sound heated. "To all these oh-so-pure wizards, who think they're better than anyone else! And to all the wizards that think normal people are idiots and fools, like —" she cut herself off.

"Like — Harry," I said, finishing her thought.

"_Yes_!" she said, her eyes flashing furiously. "He always thought he was better than us, even when I kept him busy cooking and washing and tending our garden, and Vernon —" her voice caught, for a moment "— V-vernon would have him wash the car and mow the lawn, just like _normal_ people did. We would have brought him round to the normal way of doing things — the _right_ way," she went on, bitterly, "until _you_ showed up, on his eighth birthday, and began interfering in our lives!"

It occurred to me just how ironic it was that Petunia Dursley, who thought she was better than any of her neighbors back in Little Whinging, was accusing Harry of that same thing, when in fact her and Vernon Dursley's treatment of him had had pretty much the _opposite_ effect, until I came along. It would have been useless to point that out to her, however — she had already made up her mind about Harry. And probably about most other wizards as well.

"And _now_," Petunia continued, her voice becoming whiny and obnoxious, "you _owe_ Dudley the chance to make good, to prove himself, in front of all these arrogant wizards, by helping him win this tournament!"

"But I'm not going to do that," I said, my own voice turning flinty. "I'm not going to show any favoritism."

"Oh, really?!" Petunia cackled at me. "Like you never showed any favoritism to the Potter boy!"

"Harry's not even a champion," I pointed out, stiffly.

"But that little girlfriend of his is," she sniped back. When I didn't react, she smirked at me. "Oh, you think I haven't noticed those two hanging all over each other? The whole _school_ knows about them!" She pointed over her shoulder, back toward the door. "The only one who doesn't seem to get it is that Weasley boy! He fancies her, too, that much is obvious as well, and can't bring himself to believe his 'best friend' has nicked the girl he likes out from under him!"

I realized what she was implying. "You knew they were here, earlier, didn't you?"

"Of course I did!" she snapped. "I waited until they left so I could tell you, things are going to be different from here on. You _will_ help Dudley win the Tournament, or I'll report your favoritism to the Headmaster!"

"Report away," I replied, calling her bluff. "There's been no favoritism on my part, and there won't be." I might have told her that Harry had even helped her son during his first task, but she'd never believe it. "Dumbledore's not going to believe you unless you offer him some convincing proof."

Petunia stared at me for several long seconds. "Have it your own way, then," she said at last. "But if I can't get any help from you, I'll find someone who will! And you can expect a visit from the Ministry — I _will_ be reporting you and Dumbledore to them for abuse of your position!" And she turned and stormed out of my room. I could hear her for some time, stomping noisily down the corridor, until her footsteps finally faded.

"Great," I muttered, sitting back down and picking up the book on blood magic once again, though I no longer felt like reading. "Threatened by Petunia Dursley. I'm shaking in my boots." I laughed, then sat there for several moments, contemplating what she'd said, and finally sighed and went into my bedroom. That was the perfect topper to a long week.

Nothing ever came from Petunia's threats, not even a comment from Dumbledore, and I put what she'd said down as simply spouting off at me because I'd called her bluff. The second task was almost anticlimactic, compared to the first; the four champions gathered at the edge of the lake on the morning of February twenty-fourth, along with the Hogwarts staff, students, and Ministry personnel, as Ludo Bagman played a recording of the message each champion had heard from their egg.

_"Come seek us where our voices sound,  
__We cannot sing above the ground,  
__Bring to us your golden treasure,  
__It's ours to keep, and take your measure,  
__So try to find us, and now take heed,  
__For we have something you will need  
__With us an hour it resides,  
__To help you win the final prize,  
__But past an hour — the prospect's black,  
__Too late, it's gone, it won't come back."_

"Just so everyone's clear," Bagman explained, his voice magically amplified so all of the spectators could hear. "Each champion will be taking their golden egg with them into the lake, to give to those who sent it to them in exchange for an object. The object will be a clue to the person receiving it, to help them in picking a partner who will be participating in the third task with them. All clear? All right, then! On my whistle, the champions will have precisely an hour to accomplish their task and return here. On the count of three! One…two…_three_!"

Krum, who was standing between the two female champions, turned to look at Hermione and nodded to her. She looked back at him steadily, saying nothing, and after a moment he strode forward with his egg, moving downward into the lake, then disappeared beneath the surface. Fleur was pointing her wand at her own head, clearly speaking the incantation for the Bubble-Head Charm, and after a moment a shimmering sphere appeared around her head. Hefting her own egg, Fleur moved forward and disappeared beneath the surface as well, leaving Hermione and Dudley standing side-by-side, both looking rather helpless. I supposed that neither of them had come up with a way to survive underwater for an hour.

"I knew they were both too young for this sort of thing!" Professor McGonagall was saying to Professor Flitwick, shaking her head. He nodded, a somber expression on his own bewhiskered face. Neither of them noticed that one of the students on the shore behind the champions was Draco Malfoy, flanked as usual by Crabbe and Goyle. As I watched, Malfoy stepped closer to Dudley, speaking softly enough that only Dudley could hear, before I adjusted my hearing to catch their conversation. Dudley looked around at him, throwing up his hands and hissing, 'But I don't know that spell!' Malfoy pointed toward Hermione and said, 'She knows it — just ask her!' Dudley shrugged, then turned away. Draco turned back to his cronies and muttered, 'Stupid git's still afraid to talk to her, even though he wants to ask her out!' Crabbe and Goyle both chuckled trollishly as I rocked back in my seat, stunned by what I'd just heard. Dudley _liked_ Hermione??

I began scanning the stands, looking for Harry, hoping that he would speak so I could find him. He did not seem to be present, which I could understand given the events that had transpired in the past two months. But before I could contemplate those events any further, I heard him speak, very softly, near the back of a crowd of students who were gathered to one side of the stands.

"Thanks, Dobby," I heard him say, his voice almost a whisper. "I'm very grateful."

"It is Dobby's great pleasure to help Harry Potter," a high, squeaky voice said, and I finally located the sound of the voice: I saw, not Harry, but Dobby the house-elf standing at the far back of the crowd, seemingly by himself. Then I caught the motion of a hand, holding a slimy ball of gray-green tendrils that resembled rats' tails. The hand was attached to — nothing. As I watched, it disappeared. So _that's_ where Harry was — in the crowd under his Invisibility Cloak!

I switched my eyes to track infrared and watched as Harry, beneath the Cloak, made his way a dozen yards or so through the crowd of people, as fast as he could go without joggling against anyone, to where Neville Longbottom was standing, watching Hermione with a look of helplessness on his face that matched her own.

"_Psst_! Neville!" Harry voice whispered, right behind his ear. Neville jumped. Dudley had finally said something to Hermione and she'd turned to look at him, so she didn't see Neville looking around behind him.

"Harry, is that you?" Neville whispered. "What are you _doing_?"

"I've got something for you to give to Hermione." The hand appeared again, holding the ball of gillyweed.

Neville recognized it at once. "Gillyweed! Of _course_! That's brilliant, Harry! _I _should've thought of that!"

"Maybe you did," Harry suggested. "If she asks, tell her it was your idea."

"But —"

"No, she won't take it if she thinks it's from me, and it's her only chance! Go _on_, Neville, give it to her!"

Nodding, Neville took the gillyweed from Harry's hand and started forward, just as Dudley pointed his wand at himself and spoke the Bubble-Head Charm. The shimmering sphere appeared around his head, and he waved at Hermione before splashing forward in the lake with his egg and disappearing under the surface, leaving Hermione the final champion on the lake's edge.

"It looks like Miss Granger is having a spot of trouble getting starting on her second task," Bagman commented, as Dudley disappeared. "She'd better get a move on if she's going to retain any chance of winning the Triwizard Cup!"

Meanwhile, Neville had reached her. "Here, Hermione, this will help you breathe underwater!" He held out the gillyweed to her.

Hermione looked at it doubtfully. "What _is_ that, Neville? It looks gross!"

"It's gillyweed," Neville answered. "After you eat it, you'll be able to stay underwater for an hour."

The noise in the stands was increasing as people noticed the conversation going on between Neville and Hermione. "Cheat! Foul!" the Slytherins were calling, while the Ravenclaws tried to shout them down.

But neither Hermione nor Neville appeared to hear what was going on in the stands. Hermione was giving Neville a penetrating stare. "Did Harry put you up to this, Neville?"

Neville put a very indignant expression on his face. "N-no! Herbology is my favorite subject, Hermione! You know that — this came to me just a bit ago and I managed to find enough to help you out!"

If that sounded rather convenient, Hermione apparently decided to let it skate by. "Well, okay," she said, taking the gray-green ball of tentacle-like plants and putting them into her mouth, chewing frantically. "Ewwww…" she swallowed, looking disgusted, then stared at Neville. "How long will it take to — hold on." She put a hand up to her throat. "It's getting — hard — to breathe…"

"You're growing gills," Neville said, looking at the sides of her neck, where twin slits had appeared. "Get going! You have less than an hour!" Hermione nodded, then turned and plunged into the lake. For the next hour, then, there was going to be nothing to do but watch the lake, and wait…

After a few minutes Harry walked into the stands, visible, and sat down beside me. I glanced at him, smiling, then saw his expression and looked away. It wasn't obvious, but his whole demeanor was radiating tenseness, agitation and anger, all completely suppressed and controlled. I asked, "Everything copasetic?" after a few minutes, to see if he'd say anything to me.

"Yeah," he muttered, "Everything's just dandy," in a tone that plainly said things were anything _but_ dandy. I glanced over in the stands to where the Weasley bunch were sitting: Fred and George, Ron and Ginny (it was easy to find the patches of red hair in the crowd); they were all talking among themselves and pointedly not looking Harry's way, though he'd made his passing through the stands pretty noticeable. Only Ginny hazarded a peek over her shoulder, every so often, to see if Harry or I were still looking her way.

I hadn't questioned Harry yet on what had happened between him and Hermione; they had suddenly stopped sitting together in my classes, and Hermione now hung out occasionally with Ron, though he had not been her escort to the Yule Ball. That honor had gone, intriguingly, to Viktor Krum. Lately, though I hardly saw any of them together anymore. Well, it wasn't as if I followed Hermione around watching who she spent time with; I just rarely saw her talk to either Ron or Krum these days; now, she hung out mostly with her Ravenclaw girlfriends. As in the original story, Ron and Harry had gone with the Patil twins, although in this case Padma, the Ravenclaw and one of Hermione's friends, had asked Harry to go, while Ron had asked Parvati, a fellow Gryffindor. And, from what I could tell, they were a bit more attentive to their dates than they'd been in canon.

After nearly an hour, Professor Flitwick pointed toward the lake, saying, "Look!" and as we watched, the waters rippled and Hermione walked slowly to shore, coughing sporadically to clear her mouth of lake water. In one hand she clutched a small object. She quickly disappeared from view as Ravenclaw and other students surrounded her, drying her off and wrapping her in warm blankets. She walked over to the judges' table, positioned near the edge of the lake, with Dumbledore, the other headmasters, and the two Ministry officials seated there, and showed them what she'd brought back. They nodded, and posted her time as fifty-eight minutes and forty-two seconds, and her status as "Completed." She was the last to leave and the first to return. I glanced at Harry, noting his delighted smile. He turned and grinned at me, then went back to watching Hermione.

It was another seven minutes before the waters parted again, and Viktor Krum trudged onto shore, a small package of his own held tightly in one hand, his wand in the other. By then the stands were nearly empty — most of the spectators were down by the water's edge, watching to see who'd emerge next. Five minutes later Fleur Delacour, her long hair streaming wetly behind her, slogged her away out of the lake, looking like a bedraggled, silver-haired cat.

But Harry continued to watch the lake. "Dudley's still down there," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone. He walked over to Krum. "Did you see my cousin down there," he asked the thin, dark-haired man. "The fat, blond kid?"

"I didn't," Krum muttered in reply. "I saw no one down there except those strange merpeople, and I barely caught more than a glimpse of them!"

Harry looked toward Fleur. "Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped, looking annoyed even to be asked. "I was lucky to get zair and back again myself, without worrying about some little boy 'oo shouldn't 'ave been zair in the first place!"

Harry turned finally to Hermione, who merely shook her head at him. "Hell," he said, under his breath. "I may have to go looking for him myself —"

"Don't bother," I said, pointing to the lake. "Here he comes." The waters began to ripple, then parted as Dudley's blond head, dripping water, broke the surface. The rest of him followed shortly afterwards. He was still carrying the golden egg under one arm, however, not a good sign of success for his second task.

After the four champions were sufficiently dry, blanketed and seated comfortably in chairs near the judges' table, Ludo Bagman stood to deliver the results, his voice once again magically amplified.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. We have discussed the events that occurred with Merchieftainess Murcus; she has told us exactly what transpired at the bottom of the lake. Points out of fifty maximum have been awarded as follows.

"Dudley Dursley demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm, though he was unable to descend deep enough into the lake to reach the merpeople village —"

"Because dung floats," someone behind me snickered softly. Harry gave him a nasty look, and the snicker cut off suddenly.

"— so he was consequently unable to receive the object that would help him best determine his partner for the third task. We therefore award him twenty-five points." There was polite though understated applause from the crowd, and Dudley, looking cross, shrugged angrily.

"That was a stupid task," he said scornfully. "Those fish-people should have just floated up here to give us the items, not make us come to them!"

"Fleur Delacour also used the Bubble-Head Charm to good effect," Bagman went on, pretending Dudley hadn't spoken, "and though she was detained for a short time by grindylows, was able to escape and made her way to the village, where she exchanged her egg for the item that she will use to determine her partner, made her way back to the surface, however returning about ten minutes after the one-hour time limit. We therefore award her forty points, deducting ten for the amount of time she was over the limit."

There was enthusiastic applause for Fleur, and she smiled and waved to the crowd, tossing her magnificent silver hair, now dry and moving with ethereal beauty once again, from side to side.

"Victor Krum," Bagman continued, in his amplified voice, "used an incomplete form of a Transfiguration spell to become a form of man-shark, which was nevertheless effective in allowing him to visit the merpeople village and exchange the item for his egg. It did take some time for the merpeople to overcome their natural aversion to sharks in order to interact with him, however, and he consequently returned about five minutes past the deadline. Taking that into consideration, we award him forty-five points." There was applause from the crowd, mostly from the Slytherins, who clapped louder for Krum than they had for Dudley.

"Hermione Granger made effective use of gillyweed," Bagman said lastly. "And, while she was the last to set out from the lake shore, its magical properties allowed her to navigate very quickly to the village, obtain her item and return within the time limit, returning with just over a minute remaining in the hour. We award her full marks." The Hogwarts students burst into wild applause, and Hermione actually blushed at the enthusiasm shown.

"Well done!" Harry said loudly, moving forward to stand in front of her, still smiling and clapping. "Great effort, Hermione!"

She looked at him coldly, unmoved by his enthusiasm for her efforts. "Thanks," she said, lapsing into an unsmiling silence.

Harry, looking unhappy at her response, leaned forward and said, quietly, "You're not still upset, are you —?"

"You don't get it, do you, Harry," Ron Weasley stepped between him and Hermione, putting his hand on Harry's chest to keep him back. "You two are not together anymore."

"Ron —" Harry was giving Ron a dangerous look. "We've been through this before. Nose out."

Another person — Krum, unexpectedly — stepped forward, putting his hand up as well, keeping Harry back. "She doesn't vant to talk to you, Potter," he said, speaking with finality. "Back off."

Harry looked from Krum, to Ron, then at Hermione, who shook her head at him, before turning and walking rapidly away, and after a few moments the rest of the Ravenclaw, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students converged on the top three champions, moving them toward the school and the celebrations that awaited everyone in the Great Hall. Only Dudley was left, standing there alone, with several Slytherins nearby who smirked at him, including Draco Malfoy.

"Oi, Malfoy!" Dudley called out, seeing him standing there. "That was a stupid idea of yours, telling me to use that Bubble-Head Charm! I could hardly pull myself and that eggs down from the surface before it got too hard to go any further!"

"It seemed to work for that Beauxbatons girl, Dursley," Malfoy sneered, as Crabbe and Goyle both chuckled trollishly at him. "Maybe you were just too stupid to fill the egg with water before trying to take it down to the merpeople, huh?" At Dudley's dumbfounded look he laughed maliciously, then turned his back on Dudley and walked back toward the school, leaving the ex-Muggle staring after him with rage and loathing in his eyes.

Crouch and Bagman, the Ministry officials, hurried by, avoiding looking at Dudley or at me and Harry, who was still standing nearby. Karkaroff and Maxime, and the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students who hadn't gone to the celebration in the Great Hall, were walking back to their own temporary lodgings, leaving us alone with Dudley. Harry took a step toward his cousin, who whirled on him, snarling, "_You_ don't bloody talk to me, Harry! You're the cause of all this, anyway — you and your damned wizard parents! You've ruined my life!" Harry started to speak, but Dudley ran, leaving us alone on the shore of the lake.

Harry stood watching his cousin run up the steps leading to the castle until he was out of sight, then turned to me. "Why does this have to be so damned difficult?" he asked, his voice clearly full of pain from Hermione's continued rejection. "Why is she making this so hard to get past?"

"Women are not like men, Harry," I said, softly, and he grimaced. "They don't get past things the way we do. Sometimes they never do. But Hermione is a very intelligent girl, and a very compassionate person. Keep letting her know that you still care." I hesitated for a moment, then asked, "What was it, exactly, that made her so mad at you? I've heard rumors, but we've never actually talked about it."

Harry shook his head. "It's — not important, Uncle Jimmy."

I sighed. "It must be important in _some_ way, Harry — she obviously thinks so, if she's still mad at you over it."

"I — I can't talk about it now," Harry said, turning away. "Maybe someday, later…" he began walking up the steps, back to the school, until I was alone on the shore of the lake, in the blustery February weather.

I had thought Harry and I could talk about anything. Until that moment, I thought he _would_ open up to me about anything that was bothering him. It's always a blow to our egos, I realized, when our children, or those we regard as such, stop treating us like parents and begin treating us like other human beings. But still, and I managed to smile at the thought, it's a bittersweet moment.

***

The months between the second and third tasks of the Tournament were some of the strangest I experienced at Hogwarts. Normally, the spring term was the busiest and most interesting time of the year, with the weather becoming warmer, the final Quidditch games of the year (though Quidditch had been canceled this year due to the Triwizard Tournament), and preparations for final exams, but everyone, students and staff alike, seemed to withdraw, going about their business or duties listlessly or by rote. Nothing changed between Harry and Hermione, as far as I could tell — I never saw them together, or hardly even in the same room, anymore. Harry had become friendlier with Neville, who still seemed on speaking terms with both Hermione and Ron, but I never saw Neville with Harry, and Ron or Hermione, at the same time.

Even Dudley and Petunia's anger at me seemed to cool, replaced by a casual indifference I found peculiar, especially since their school studies had gained momentum, unlike the majority of other students at school that spring. I often found both of them in the Library, pouring over old books, though they closed and covered them whenever I approached. I respected their desire for privacy and didn't extend my perception through the parchments they used to cover the books, though I admit some curiosity about what had sparked such fervor in their academics.

I talked the various situations over with Dumbledore, but it was his opinion that most of the behaviors exhibited were due to overall tenseness at having the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts. As for Dudley and Petunia, he was rather happy to see their studies coming along so nicely. I suppose I shouldn't have complained about that, even though it felt wrong to me, somehow.

I also hadn't heard anything about the partners being selected by the champions to help them in the third task. Dumbledore wasn't overly concerned with that, either; he regarded it as being within the prerogative of the champions themselves. "But what if they choose someone inappropriate?" I suggested to him.

"They won't be able to," Dumbledore had replied, placidly.

"Why _not_?" I wanted to know. This was one area where complete details had not been furnished to the staff or students — only the four champions had been told how they were to select their partner.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge that information, James," Dumbledore said, and I took a deep breath to calm my irritation at the man. I could exert but a tiny fraction of my Power, and that secret, and all the other mysteries abiding within the head of Albus Dumbledore would be laid bare before me. But obviously that would be "cheating," straying outside the parameters I'd laid down for myself while in this reality, and while I might have used Leglimency to discover the secret, Dumbledore was also well-versed in Occlumency, and would know in any case if I attempted to penetrate his defenses that way.

Therefore, I simply shrugged. "Have it your way, Albus," I said, smiling. "I suppose I'll find out when I find out." And that was that, as far as the third task of the Tournament was concerned. Until —

It was the middle of June, just a few week or so before the third task was to be held, and I was in my office late that evening, looking through some of the final exam papers from students who'd just begun to take their end-of-year Defense Against the Dark Arts tests. There was a small benefit in final exams, in that we only had to administer them to five classes; the fifth and seventh years took their O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. examinations, respectively, with the Wizarding Examinations Authority, from the Ministry of Magic.

I almost didn't hear the knocking at my door; it was so soft it almost blended into the ticking sound of the cuckoo clock on the wall of my office. I glanced up at it, wondering why it suddenly sounded so off-kilter, then realized there was someone at my door. I glanced at the clock again, seeing how late it was, and wondered who would expect me to be here in my office this late at night. "Come in," I finally said, and Hermione Granger stepped quickly inside, closing the door much more softly than most students did.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," I said, putting my quill in the holder in the inkwell and sitting back as she approached me.

"Hello, Professor," she said, her eyes red and puffy — she'd been crying, though her eyes were dry of tears at the moment. "I — I hope it's not too late for me to talk to you," she said, looking at me uncertainly.

"It _is_ late," I said, a bit severely, and she began to look dismayed. "But it's alright," I added, hastily. "I'm still here, after all, and I have no problem answering any questions you have for me. Unless," I amended, "they broach a subject I'm not allowed to comment on, of course."

"Thank you, Professor," she said, gratefully. She sat down in the chair, composing herself, and then began to speak. "As you know, sir, the champions are supposed to select someone to help them during the third task. The merpeople gave each of us an item that would help us to determine who would best assist us during that task.

"I've been looking at the item they gave me, trying to decide who it could be pointing to, and I think I've come up with the solution. I would like to show you the object and ask if you concur with me."

I smiled. It was hardly a question I might've expected from her, but I was pleased to be included in her decision process. "That sounds pretty straightforward," I said, nodding. "You have the object, I expect?"

She nodded, reaching into her robes and producing a small wooden box, then leaned forward as if to stand and give it to me. Instead, however, the box levitated from her hand, floating across the desk into mine. I caught it, noting at the same time that she did not have her wand in either hand.

"That was a pretty neat display of wandless magic," I said, impressed. I knew Harry was capable of such magic; he'd spent a couple of years practicing with wandless magic before he got his wand. "You must be practicing quite a bit to do that so easily."

She nodded, blushing. "H-Harry gave me a book on it, a couple of years ago," she said, "and he's practiced it with me at various times in the last year."

I nodded, then looked at the box. It wasn't very big, perhaps an inch square and a bit less than that tall, with a small metal hinge along the back. I opened it, noting there was no magic keeping it locked, and looked at the object inside: a small diamond pendant, heart-shaped, and with the slightest tinge of red in the stone, at the end of a golden chain. "It's very nice," I remarked, raising it out of the box magically with my own wandless magic. "The diamond is quite exquisite," I added. "I can see who you think this item would suggest: Harry, correct?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "You, sir."

"_Me_?" I said, dumbfounded. I could not believe she had drawn that conclusion. "Hermione," I said, exasperation creeping into my voice. "A red-and-gold pendant, _heart-shaped_, and you don't think about _Harry_? There's something wrong with that picture! No, it cannot be me!"

"The heart can represent something other than romantic love," Hermione persisted. "It can represent courage, for example. You are the bravest person I know," she said, earnestly.

"Aside from Harry?" I added, trying to get her to see the obvious.

"Well…yes…" she admitted. "But that's only most of the time!" she blurted out, becoming agitated. "You know what happened with him and Ron, don't you?"

"No," I shook my head. "He hasn't told me yet."

"Well, I can see why he wouldn't want to!" she said, shrilly. "He was an absolute beast, a complete _arse_ —" she stopped, looking horrified at the word she'd just used in front of me.

I ignored it. "Hermione, why don't you just tell me what happened?"

She drew a long breath and let it out, shuddering. "Al— alright," she said, at last. "It was a few weeks after the first task, in December. Harry and I had talked about cluing Ron in on our being together, as he was hinting around that he might ask me to the Yule Ball, and Harry had already asked me and I'd accepted.

"We'd been out walking around Saturday afternoon, just spending some time together alone, but as we came back inside, Ron met us in the Entrance Hall. He looked terribly upset." Hermione shook her head, remembering. "His face was so purple, I thought he was going to explode. He came up to us and said to me, 'So when were you going to tell me?' I didn't know what he meant, and he thrust a piece of parchment into my hand. I read it." Hermione's eyes were beginning to water.

"It — it said that Ron had better wake up and smell the coffee, that the girl he liked was laughing at him behind her back, her and her boyfriend, who was also Ron's best friend. I looked at the bottom of the letter, but it wasn't signed.

"There were other students in the Entrance Hall, mostly Slytherins. Malfoy was there — I think he knew what was going on, because I remember glancing at him as we came in and saw him grinning at us." Hermione leaned forward, now sobbing. Truth to tell, I felt pretty bad for her as well. This had all the signs of a set-up, and she and Harry had fallen right into it.

"Then Ron started in on Harry. 'And _you_! You're supposed to be my best friend! Yet you go behind my back and steal Hermione away from me!' Harry tried to tell him that's not how it was, but Ron just kept shouting at him, getting madder and madder. Then suddenly, he reached out and put his hand on Harry's shoulder, to push him, and Harry twisted round some way, and the next thing we knew Ron was on the floor."

Hermione looked up at me, her mouth covered with one hand, as if she didn't want to continue. But — "Harry's been training during the summers, you know," and I nodded. "He's also been going into the Room of Requirement —"

"He knows about the Room already?" I interrupted her.

She nodded. "Yes, Fred and George told a story once about hiding from Mr. Filch in a broom cupboard, but they couldn't find it again. Harry went to where they said they'd found it and figured out how to get inside. He's been using it since the last half of our third year.

"Anyway," she went on. "Ron got up again, and Harry told him to stop being a prat and just get over it. But Ron went at him again and Harry — Harry…" she shook her head, unable to speak for several moments, then went on, "Harry pulled out his wand and cast a spell at Ron that lifted him into the air and spun him round and round, really fast. Ron was yelling at him to stop, and so was I, and more and more students were coming into the Hall. I couldn't _believe_ he was treating his best friend that way!" she cried, looking horrified by the memory she was reliving.

"Finally, Harry let him go, and Ron dropped onto the floor on his back. He groaned when he hit, too — Harry didn't let him down gently. I ran over to Ron, to see if he was all right, and Harry said, 'Let him be, Hermione — he got what he deserved.' I couldn't believe he'd think that! 'How can you say that?' I screamed at him. 'What would you do if I dropped _you_ for Ron, or for someone else?! Would you beat them up, too?!' 'Hermione, don't be ridiculous!' Harry said. 'That's not going to happen!' 'Which part,' I said — I was angrier at Harry than I've ever been — the dropping part, or the beating-up part?' 'Neither,' he said."

Hermione grimaced, then wiped her eyes and looked up at me. I saw the raw emotion and intensity in them as she spoke. "I told him, 'Then you're already wrong, because we're through, Harry Potter!' I helped Ron to his feet, but he couldn't walk, he was so dizzy, so I levitated him up to the infirmary. And that's what happened between Harry and Ron and me."

I sat back in my chair, surprised and upset. That was a side of Harry I'd never seen, though I knew this version of him was a bit more cocky than in canon. He and Ron had had their fights in the original story, especially during this year, but they had always found a way to mend their differences.

"So that's why you don't think this pendant points to Harry," I said at last.

She nodded. "I just don't think Harry and I would — would make it together…" she said, but her voice faltered.

"What about you and Viktor?" I asked plaintively. "You went to the Yule Ball with him."

"What? No," she said, her voice now firm. "He was, well…available," she shrugged. "And he's interesting to talk to, if you like Quidditch or Bulgarian summers. But I'm not really into either. He's not much on academics, either."

"And what about Ron?" I went on. "Does he hold any interest for you?"

"Well…" she cast her eyes downward. "I didn't want Harry to beat him up, of course, but we never…really…got off on the right foot." She shrugged again. "I just don't see myself with him."

"Do you see yourself with anybody?" I pressed.

She was silent for some time. Then, "I…don't know." She fell silent again.

"Okay," I said, going back to the more immediate issue. "So you're asking me to be your partner for the third task, right?" She nodded. "Am I even allowed? Dumbledore didn't explain the rules for that to the staff or any of the students except you four champions."

"He and the other Ministry personnel told us we could pick anyone we wanted," she explained. "Student, teacher, even a Tournament judge if we wanted. There were only two exceptions — Hagrid, and Mr. Bagman, who would be designing the final task and so would know all of its details. So there's no problem with me wanting you as a partner, Professor," she managed a small smile at last.

I stood and walked around in front of my desk, crouching down so I was on eye-level with her. "Well, in that case, I accept," I said, holding out my hand. Her eyes lit up, and she took my hand, shaking it happily.

"Thank you, Professor," she said, beaming. "I'm sure we'll make a great team together!" She stood, still smiling gratefully, and walked to the door. "I'll submit your name to the panel of judges tomorrow morning, to make it official. Thanks again, Professor Monroe!" She turned toward the door.

"Hermione," I said quickly. "One thing before you go…" She looked back at me. "I never got to ask you what you thought of your visit to the merpeople, using that gillyweed?"

She looked at me a moment, her eyes alight with that memory, and said, "It was the most amazing thing I've ever done, Professor. I will never, _never_ forget it!" I nodded, smiling.

And then she was gone.

I sighed and wizard-locked the door behind her, then walked into my private quarters, hoping that Harry wasn't expecting her to change her mind at the last minute and come to him for her partner. And I _still_ had no idea what the champion's partner was supposed to do!

***

June twenty-fourth arrived, a usual British summer day, though knowing about the event to come later that evening seemed to make everyone giddy with anticipation. At breakfast, just before the first class of the day, Hermione joined Fleur, Krum and Dudley in the room beyond the east door, where their parents were waiting to see them before the big event. I watched both Harry and Ron, sitting at nearly opposite ends of the Gryffindor table, tracking her as she walked through the doorway and out of sight. As far as the Harry-Ron-Hermione friendship went, this year was a complete bust, I thought to myself, sighing.

Glancing toward the east door, I let my visual perception sweep into the room, noting its occupants. Petunia was there, even though she saw Dudley every day; they were huddled together, speaking in whispers (I surmised, as I didn't want to intrude on private conversations); Viktor Krum's dark-haired mother and his father, whom he'd inherited his hooked nose from, were sitting with him in another corner. Fleur's mother and little sister, Gabrielle I recalled was her name, were sitting together, their hands all clasped together. Finally, Hermione was standing with her mother and father, Wendell and Monica, who each had a hand on her shoulder and were smiling at her, though both of them looked a bit uncomfortable. The magical protections on the castle made it appear to them as an ancient, crumbling ruin, dangerous to even be inside, and even though Dumbledore had enchanted them to be temporarily immune to the protections, some of its effects must have still lingered.

At the feast that night, the Hogwarts house-elves once again pulled out all the stops, with extra courses to celebrate the final day of the Triwizard Tournament and to honor the schools of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Most of the students ate themselves silly, but I noticed Hermione, as did as the other champions, avoided eating a lot, whether from nervousness, excitement, or just to keep themselves from feeling too sated. Okay, all of them except Dudley, who acted like he was in hog heaven with all that food surrounding him. I overheard Crabbe and Goyle at one point actually _oink_ at him; he ignored them.

At the High Table, Ministry officials Crouch and Bagman had been joined by Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge himself, though I noticed a conspicuous absence — Dolores Umbridge was not at the feast. It was possible, I supposed, that she hadn't attended because Fudge was here, but she had been a constant fixture in the background over the course of the Tournament: watching, scribbling notes, and smiling smugly whenever something had gone the least bit awry. Her not being there now seemed a bit suspicious to me.

At the end of the feast, Dumbledore rose, announcing to everyone that they would shortly be proceeding to the Quidditch pitch, where the last task would unfold, and he asked the champions to follow Ludo Bagman there first, while the rest would follow in five minutes' time. As we watched, Hermione, Fleur, Viktor and Dudley rose from their own tables and followed Bagman out through the doors of the Great Hall.

"Exciting, isn't it, James?" Professor Flitwick, sitting next to me said, beaming as he watched Hermione pass through the double doors of the Hall. "To think — a Hogwarts student, one of our own, may be the next Triwizard Champion! It should be interesting to see whom Miss Granger has chosen to be her partner in this task."

I nodded. "Yes, it should, Professor…"

Flitwick leaned toward me conspiratorially. "Do you think she'll pick Harry Potter, James? How likely is that, eh?"

I shrugged. "Not very, I expect."

The five minutes were up, and Dumbledore bid us make our way to the stands surrounding the Quidditch field, where a huge maze had been magically grown by Hagrid and Mr. Crouch in just the past few weeks. The hedgerows were twenty feet high in most places; halfway between the ends was an open area, with a twenty-foot wide opening: the entrance to the maze. Above us, the sky had become a deep blue, and the first stars were beginning to appear. The four champions were arrayed in front of the opening, with Hermione and Krum standing between Dudley on one end and Fleur on the other. As they arrived, four more people joined them in front of the entrance: Hagrid and Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Snape, each of whom had a large, luminous red star affixed to their hats (except for Hagrid, who had his on his back). McGonagall explained to the champions that they would be patrolling the perimeter of the maze and that if they should encounter some difficulty to shoot red sparks into the air, and one of them would come to fetch them. They then moved off to their respective positions.

Bagman then magically amplified his voice and began to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced. "We are about to begin the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament! First of all, let me remind you of how the scores currently stand.

In first place is Miss Hermione Granger, with ninety points." The stands erupted in applause; birds as far away as the Forbidden Forest took flight at the sudden noise. "In second place, Mr. Viktor Krum, of the Durmstrang Institute, with eighty-five points." The Durmstrang students applauded, along with some of the Slytherins. "In third place, Miss Fleur Delacour, of the Beauxbatons Academy!" More applause for Fleur. "And last, but not least, Mr. Dudley Dursley, of Hogwarts!" There was a smattering of applause for Dudley.

Bagman stepped out in front of the champions. "We will now have each champion announce who their partner will be, in reverse order of their standings. The partner chosen must be present to accept, and cannot be one of the four guardians who are now patrolling the perimeter of the maze, or myself." He walked over to Dudley. "Dudley, will you announce who your partner for the third task will be?" Bagman touched the tip of his wand to Dudley's neck.

Dudley coughed nervously, then spoke the name, "H-Harry Potter!" A mixture of gasps and muttered comments erupted in the stands as Harry walked forward to stand next to Dudley, not looking at him.

Dudley's choice didn't appear to bother Bagman, however, who beamed at the stands and walked over to Fleur, for her choice. "Miss Delacour, your choice is…?"

Fleur seemed to be scanning the crowd for her choice, then smiled and said, "Cedric Diggory." The Hufflepuffs shouted and cheered, and Cedric smiled and made his way out of the stands and next to Fleur. One person in the stands who appeared to be unhappy with her choice was Cho Chang, who was giving both Fleur and Cedric a rather baleful glare as other Ravenclaw girls around her commiserated with her over this surprising development.

Bagman went on to Krum, who immediately said, "Mr. Bartemius Crouch." The Durmstrang headmaster, who had been smiling as he waited for Krum's choice, now looked shocked and surprised — nearly as surprised as Mr. Crouch did.

"No!" Karkaroff said. "That is not how it was supposed to be! I protest —!"

"Mr. Crouch agreed I could choose him, Headmaster," Krum said, sullenly. "You do not have the right to overrule me."

Mr. Crouch walked forward stiffly. "It is irregular, but it is within the rules, Headmaster Karkaroff. I could see no reason to refuse."

Karkaroff stared them a long moment, then waved his hand dismissively. "Bah! Keep your choice, then!" he said to Krum, and stalked away. There was an attempt at applause, but it died almost immediately.

Finally, Bagman turned to Hermione for her choice. "I choose Professor James Monroe," she replied, and the stands applauded once more as I walked down to the field, stepping into the gap between her and Harry, who had stopped between her and Dudley when he'd come onto the field.

Harry glanced at me. "This should be interesting," he said, dryly. "D'you know how this partner-thing is supposed to work, Professor? Dudley doesn't have a clue."

I shook my head. "I don't think anyone does, except maybe Bagman and Crouch, and I'm not too sure about Bagman." Ludo was rummaging about in his robes, looking for something — presumably notes on how we were supposed to proceed.

Finally Bagman produced a small object, a miniature reproduction of the Triwizard Cup. "I will be taking the four partners into the maze using a Portkey. We will arrive at the real Triwizard Cup, the location of which is known only to me.

"I will move each partner some distance from the Cup, then have them drink a potion that will place them under a bewitched sleep. They will be awakened when a champion touches them. The champion and their partner will then make their way to the Triwizard Cup. The first champion to touch the Cup will be the winner!

"When I return, we will release the champions into the maze in one-minute intervals, in order of their ranking, beginning with Miss Granger." Bagman stepped forward, then turned to face us and removed the wand from his throat. "Partners, if you please?" He gestured us forward, and we each stepped around the miniature Cup he was holding. We reached out to touch it —

Several moments later, we had arrived somewhere within the maze, standing before the Triwizard Cup, which was positioned on a plinth. "Very good!" Bagman said, beaming at the four of us. "Remember," he said, "when you're awakened, you will lead your champion back here to the Triwizard Cup, so they can touch it. Pretty simple, right? Right! Now, let me get each of you into position, then we'll get this task cracking." Taking Harry first, he led him away; they disappeared into darkness as soon as they left the area of the Cup.

I looked at Cedric after they'd gone. "Interesting of Miss Delacour to choose you as her partner, Cedric."

Cedric grinned wryly and made a shrugging motion. "She asked me to the Yule Ball, too, but I was already going with Cho," he explained. "I told her I'd give her a rain check — I just didn't expect she'd pick the third task to collect it!"

A few minutes later Bagman arrived again and collected Cedric, disappearing into the maze once again, leaving me and Crouch alone. I wondered whether to engage him in small talk before Bagman returned — the man never seemed comfortable talking to most people. I'd never seem him look comfortable speaking to anyone, even Dumbledore. In face, the only person he seemed even remotely comfortable with was Ludo Bagman — hmm.

It occurred to me that Ludo had quite a large role in this Tournament, larger even than Crouch's role, it seemed. He was exempt from being a partner, for example, and he and Hagrid were the only people who knew the layout of the maze. Hagrid had been assigned to watch for trouble, but Bagman was still in the thick of things. That, and the fact that Umbridge had disappeared for this last task, was starting to make the hackles on the back of my neck stand up.

Bagman returned. "Ready, Barty, old boy?" he asked grinning. He threw me a wink. "I'll be back in a jiffy for you, Professor." I nodded, saying nothing, and watched as Bagman began leading Crouch back into the maze. When Bagman's back was turned, I sent a small spell his way: the Aging Curse. Unlike an Aging Potion, which aged a person's outward appearance, but not their actual chronological age (this had been Fred and George's mistake with the Age Line), an Aging Curse actually aged a person, up to a year, depending on the intent of the caster. The spell I sent was relatively minor, aiming to age Bagman only an hour — the length of time a dose of Polyjuice Potion lasted.

Bagman stumbled, then glanced back at a patch of grass. "Clumsy of me," he chuckled, looking at me and Crouch sheepishly. He was still Ludo Bagman, however, as he turned and led Crouch into the maze, leaving me alone.

I frowned. So Bagman was really himself, eh? I turned to face the Triwizard Cup. In the original story, the Cup had been made a Portkey that whisked Harry and Cedric, who'd both touched it at the same moment, to the graveyard in Little Hangleton where Wormtail and a grotesquely-embodied Voldemort waited, to cast the spell that would return the Dark Lord to his original form. I cast Scarpin's Revelaspell on the Cup, to see if it had a Portkey enchantment on it. There was no enchantment on it.

_Good_, I thought, that meant that whoever was going to enchant the Cup hadn't done so, yet. I placed a protection spell of my own on the Cup, one that would let me know if anyone else enchanted it, who that person was and what spell they had used. Bagman appeared a few moments later and gestured for me to follow him, and we walked into the maze.

He led me through a number of twists and turns, not moving very far away from the Cup, but a fair distance in terms of how far we walked to get to the little cul-de-sac he'd brought me to.

"Here we are," Bagman said. He held out a small potion vial. "Drink this." I took it and tipped it back, draining the vial in one gulp. "You should make yourself comfortable, it will take effect rather quickly," he said moving back toward the maze. I sat down in the grass, then lay back. "There is also a protection across this opening," he indicated the entrance to the cul-de-sac. "It will keep some of the more aggressive creatures from attacking you while you're asleep. Good luck, Professor." And he disappeared. I closed my eyes, wondering how long it would take Hermione to find me. There was a small _pop_, and I opened my eyes, but with Bagman gone and seeing nothing else nearby, closed them again.

I lay there for some time, determined to wait patiently until Hermione, or some other champion, happened by and "awakened" me. Of course, I had taken an antidote for the Bewitched Sleep potion while at the feast, earlier; I had no intention of lying there, asleep and helpless, though in reality I would have remained conscious and capable of shrugging off the potion's effects anytime I wanted to.

There was a strange _skritching_ sound, something I didn't recognize. I opened my eyes and grimaced: coming into the cul-de-sac was a Blast-Ended Skrewt! Bagman had told me there were wards to prevent this, but that _pop_ I'd heard earlier must have been the ward breaking. I wondered why it had failed, but there was no time to contemplate it now — the Skrewt was bearing down on me!

The Skrewt was massive, almost ten feet long, and its outer shell looked rock-hard. It skittered forward, reaching for me, and I pointed a finger at it, levitating its front end upward to expose its soft, less magically resistant underside, then cast an Impediment Curse to hold it in place. Next I cast a Reduction Charm at it, shrinking it down to its newly-hatched size of six inches. Finally, I cast a Banishment Charm on it, and it whizzed away from me, back into the maze. Sighing, I closed my eyes and resumed my wait for Hermione. How long could it take her to find me, anyway?

I belched suddenly; my dinner was disagreeing with me. No, it was more than that, I realized suddenly. I was beginning to experience stomach cramps; they were much more severe than simple indigestion. I cast a quick revealment spell upon myself and found — poison! There'd been a little something extra in that vial I'd taken, several minutes ago.

I sat up. What a damned bother! But at least it told me something about Bagman — he _was_ up to something on his own, apparently, if he was poisoning Hogwarts professors. The poison was quickly becoming lethal, threatening to stop my heart in just a few more minutes. Playing by the rules would take too much time — I concentrated for a moment, and the poison disappeared from my system. I stood. All bets were off now — I was not waiting here to see what happened, I was going out into the maze on my own, to find out what was going on out there. I tossed the empty vial that had held the poisoned potion onto the grass, casting a Transfiguration spell that turned it into a lifelike facsimile of myself in a repose of bewitched sleep (or death, if Bagman happened to return here to find me). I added a detection spell that would alert me if someone touched the figure, then cast a Disillusionment Charm on myself (it was almost completely dark by now, anyway — but still, I didn't want to be noticed until I was ready) and moved into the maze.

The noise from the stands were being magically muffled here inside the maze, though the crowds were positioned pretty much all around it. Still, I might have used my enhanced perception to see through the hedges to where all the champions, partners and other creatures were positioned. That was tempting, too, because I didn't want to waste any time. But I solved that dilemma with the _Homenum Revelio _spell — I cast it in various directions, noting where and approximately how far away the images thus revealed were from me, then making my way toward the closest one.

Within a minute or so I came across Dudley, who was surprisingly rather far inside the maze, given that he'd had a three-minute penalty. He was stumbling along, his _Lumos_-lighted wand held tremblingly before him, and I watched him silently as he walked past me, going in the wrong direction. One of the images I'd seen, revealed by the _Homenum Revelio _charm, lying on the ground some distance away, had been the right size and shape to be Harry, but it would be some time before Dudley came across him at the rate he was going. I continued on to the next person, looking for Bagman.

I next encountered Viktor Krum, moving steadily and methodically through the maze. He had some idea about what he was doing, or at least Karkaroff had coached him well — he would periodically mark the hedges with an arrow shape in the direction he was traveling, using a Color Charm to make the arrow only a slightly different shade than the bushes themselves. He was moving toward one of the other images I'd seen, probably Fleur or Hermione, from its size and shape, and I followed along behind him.

A minute later we came across Hermione, who was not far from where Bagman had placed me in the maze. They both stopped, staring at one another. It was a trifle awkward, I suppose, meeting someone you dated one time and whom you're now competing with for the most highly-sought-after prize in the Wizarding World (well, other than the Quidditch World Cup or an Order of Merlin award, of course). "Hello, Hermy-own," he said at last.

She managed a small smile. "You still haven't gotten my name right, Viktor."

Krum shrugged slightly. "Vell, I know how to say it, you taught me, remember? I vas just teasing you a bit, Hermione."

"Still haven't found your partner yet?" Hermione said, glancing around him, and directly through me. Krum shook his head. "I haven't either. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do if I find the Cup first."

"You have found the Cup?" Viktor asked, looking at her sharply.

"Uh, no," she said, looking startled by his sudden change of demeanor. "I would have just touched it if I had," she said, grinning.

Viktor relaxed, but not completely. "I see," he said, smiling roguishly at her. "Hermione," he went on quickly, with the look of a man smitten, "I vonder if you would consider visiting Bulgaria this summer…"

Hermione's eyes grew wide for a moment. "Er," she said, nonplussed. "Well — I — that is, it's a very nice offer, Viktor, but — it's rather sudden of you…"

Krum put up a hand, and she stopped stammering. "It's fine," he said. "Please think it over, though — I vould like for you to see the mountains and lakes around my home this summer. It is very pretty. But for now —" he stepped back and gestured for her to go on, "we should resume our little contest, yes?"

Hermione smiled and made a small curtsey to him (I rolled my eyes again), then walked by, resuming her search for me. I, standing between them, was about to turn and follow her when Krum suddenly pointed his wand at her back, shouting "_Stupefy_!" The red bolt shot from his Gregorovitch wand, but traveled only a foot before I thrust out my hand, which deflected the spell into the nighttime sky. I pulled my hand back, shaking it bit — it had stung! In my current form I was resistant to most magic but not invulnerable to it. Hermione spun around at the sound, staring at Krum in shock, her own wand now pointed back at him. They both stared at each other for several seconds, wondering what the other would do next.

At the same moment, they both reacted. "_Stupefy_!" Krum shouted again, as Hermione said, "_Protego_!" forming a Shield Charm from which Krum's Stunning Charm ricocheted. Hermione's shield faded as she said loudly, "_Expelliarmus_!" and Krum's wand flew from his hand, disappearing into the darkness. For a moment Krum froze, staring at Hermione in surprise as he realized she'd bested him, then he turned to run. But with her next spell, "Incarcerous!" a few moments later Krum found himself flat on the ground, bound with ropes from Hermione's wand.

She looked at him for a long moment, an expression on her face somewhere between pity and contempt, then said, "I'm sorry, Viktor," and raised her wand, shooting red sparks into the night sky. Without another word she turned, continuing on her way; after casting a detection spell on Krum, I followed her. We were close to where Bagman had left me, and as Hermione strode through the twists and turns of the maze there was a sudden _crunch_ under her feet. Stopping, she lifted one shoe, turning up the squashed remains of a small Blast-Ended Skrewt. "Ew, gross," she muttered, wiping her shoe on the grass, then walked on a dozen or so more yards, coming at last to the cul-de-sac where my lifelike effigy lay on the ground.

Hermione knelt down beside the figure, but before she could touch it, I dropped the Disillusionment Charm, touching her shoulder, and she jumped, startled. "Sorry, Hermione," I told her, as she stared first at me, then at my Transfigured likeness. "Things got rather strange while we were being arranged for the final task. Ludo Bagman slipped me some poison, and while I was fortunate enough to have the antidote, I wasn't going to just lie here and wait for something else to happen. I've been trying to find Bagman, until I came across you and Krum."

"You saw what happened?" she asked, surprised, and I nodded. "I couldn't believe that Viktor attacked me!" she said, shock and disappointment on her face. "What would make him do such a thing?"

"The Imperius Curse," I said at once. "I checked, after you left him tied up back there. Either Bagman did it after Krum came into the maze, or he Imperiused Crouch, and Crouch Imperiused Krum." As I said this I Transfigured my image back into the potion vial, then dropped it into my pocket.

"But why curse Viktor in the first place?" Hermione asked, as we walked back into the maze, headed toward where the Cup was.

"I think this maze is part of a trap, to get Harry to a particular location, a graveyard in Little Hangleton where Voldemort's father—" Hermione winced as I said the name "— is buried, so his followers can perform a ritual to return him to his own body."

Hermione gasped. "Does Harry know about that?" she asked, tensely.

"I should have mentioned it to him sooner," I admitted. "But until Dolores Umbridge didn't show up for this task, I wasn't sure anything was going to happen. I've been watching the Ministry people and none of them have acted like a Death Eater in disguise."

"What's Dolores Umbridge got to do with Death Eaters?" Hermione wanted to know.

"Maybe nothing," I shrugged. "I keep expecting her to show up around here at some point. But I think Bagman's our boy — now I just need to find him."

We rounded a corner and came upon a T-intersection at that moment, and from the opposite direction saw Harry and Dudley approaching it as well. We all stopped, staring at one another; then Harry said, "We just got round a sphinx back there, did you have any trouble in that direction?" indicating where she and I had come from.

Hermione shook her head. "I stepped on a baby Skrewt," she said, "but I didn't even notice 'til I'd squashed it."

We looked down the long row that adjoined the intersection, and in the distance saw the Triwizard Cup, gleaming brightly. "There it is!" Dudley shouted to Harry. "Let's go! We gotta beat them!" But nobody moved.

Harry looked at me. "Something doesn't feel right about this," he said, slowly. "I took the potion Mr. Bagman gave me, and went to sleep, but I woke up later and there was no one around. I started searching for the others. I heard Fleur scream at some point and tried to find her, but there was no sign of her… Then I came across Dudley, who was sitting on the ground —"

"I was tired!" Dudley snarled, looking back toward the Cup. "Come _on_, Harry!"

"— crying," Harry went on, giving Dudley a cold look, "because he'd met the sphinx and was afraid to try to answer her question, so we found her and got past her. And here we are. What do you make of this, sir?" he asked me, probably keeping his tone formal since I was technically there to help Hermione, not him.

"I think this is a plot by Voldemort," I said, and both Hermione and Dudley blanched as I spoke the name. Harry merely nodded acceptance. "Let's get to the Cup," I said, pointing down between the hedges toward it. The detection charm I'd placed on it hadn't triggered, but— "I think the Cup was going to be a Portkey, meant to take Harry to where Voldemort is. I don't think it's been enchanted yet, but don't touch it, any of you, just to be safe. Let's go," I said, taking up the rear position, and we trotted down the row toward it. I expected something to happen — one of the humans in the maze was still behind us, and if we were getting close to the Cup we might force his hand.

There was a sudden shout (a scream, really) from Dudley — another denizen of the maze had suddenly appeared: a gigantic spider, standing ten or more feet tall, loomed in front of them, and as Dudley rapidly backpedaled Harry and Hermione stepped apart and he fell on the ground between them. Harry glanced at Hermione, smiling, and she returned the smile, then the pair of them hit the spider with dual Impediment Curses and Stunners, as Dudley, on the ground between them, gaped at the giant arachnid in terror. Their synchronized attack did the trick, and the spider fell over sideways, crushing part of the hedge, and lay still.

The words "_Avada Kedavra_!" came suddenly, from behind me, and I spun, using the only item available to block the spell — a section of hedge bent in front of me and was blasted apart by a bolt of green light. As the foliage settled, I could see the image of Ludo Bagman, staring at me in shock, then ducking around the edge of the T-intersection.

"Go on to the Cup!" I yelled back to Harry and Hermione. "Wait for me there! I'm going to find out what's up with Bagman!" Taking out my wand, I jogged back to the T-intersection, glancing around the corner carefully. I looked back, seeing Harry, Hermione and Dudley running toward the Cup, then went after Bagman.

I did not have to travel very far in the maze before my _Homenum Revelio _spells showed Bagman poised around a bend, wand at the ready, to curse me. His wand was very close to the corner; smiling, I cast a ribbon from the tip of my wand, sending it around the corner of the hedge to wrap around Bagman's wand, then simply yanked back on it, pulling the wand from his hand. Bagman, yanked forward as well, overbalanced and fell to the ground, wandless. I stuck his wand in a pocket of my robe and approached him as he got slowly to his feet, smirking at me.

"Figured it out at last, did you?" he sneered, looking very un-Bagman-like in demeanor now that he'd been caught. "I'm surprised that poison didn't get you — how'd you manage to get round it?"

"Well, I _am_ a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," I pointed out. "And you surprised me too, Bagman — I thought it was going to be Umbridge who turned out to be the Death Eater."

"_Her_?" Bagman laughed contemptuously. "She wouldn't last five minutes with the Dark Lord. Besides," he shrugged. "She's a half-blood at best, trying to pass as pureblooded. My father —" he cut himself off suddenly.

"Your father?" I repeated, then came to a sudden realization. "You're not Ludo Bagman, are you?" Bagman shrugged, making no reply. "Who are you, then?"

"That's for me to know," he replied, tauntingly, "and you to find out, within the hour."

"Ah," I said, understanding, and hit him with an Aging Curse. Bagman fell to the ground, grimacing in pain as his features began to ripple and flow, and within a minute he had changed from Ludo Bagman to — Bartemius Crouch, Junior.

Crouch, who retained his youthful looks, though his time in Azkaban had weighed heavily on his eyes, glared up at me. I looked down at him, surprised. "I confess I didn't expect to see _you_, of all people," I told him. "You were pretending to be Umbridge, weren't you?"

"Fool," Crouch rasped, dragging himself slowly to his feet. "Umbridge was her loathsome self all this time. She didn't come for the third task, since Fudge was coming here to watch for himself. No, I was Polyjuiced to resemble my father, you imbecile."

"All this time?" I said, and in spite of being annoyed at Crouch's epithet he wasn't far from the mark. I'd been stupid — the elder Crouch had been an unwitting pawn in the original story — Voldemort had plotted to draw Harry away from Hogwarts, and I never considered that Crouch was anyone other than who he held himself out to be. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?" I remembered, suddenly.

"_Supposed_ to be," Crouch grinned. "But my dear old father, following the last wishes of my mother, smuggled me out of Azkaban Polyjuiced to resemble her, while she took my place in the cell. She was dying, it was his last favor to her to have me set free.

"But —" he continued, a wry expression twisting his features, "my father — rightly — did not trust me to willingly stay within his home. I would have returned to find my master, but my father put me under the Imperius Curse, forced me to remain in his house, hidden under an Invisibility Cloak, watched by his house-elf, Winky. If it hadn't been for nosy old Bertha Jorkins, I might still have been there."

I could pretty much guess how the rest of Crouch's tale would unfold. "She found out about you, somehow?"

"Yes," Barty nodded, beginning to pace back and forth as he talked. "She was at my father's house one day, on business, and heard Winky talking to me. She waited until my father arrived to meet her, then confronted him over the matter. He was forced to Obliviate her memory, but the charm was too powerful — it damaged her memory permanently. Jorkins became even more unreliable at work, and my father granted her an extended leave from the Ministry. Fortunately — for me — she decided to go on holiday and unwittingly chose Albania, where my master had been hiding for some time. He found her, somehow, and possessed her, and took the knowledge she had, of me and my imprisonment within my father's house, and the Triwizard Tournament, to be played this year at Hogwarts, and concocted a master plan to regain his body, and defeat the magical protections Harry Potter has had that has kept my master from being able to touch him.

"And then," Crouch continued, his eyes gleaming in the light of my wand, which I had lit so he could see me (I could of course see him clearly even in the unnatural darkness inside the maze), "my master was able to free me from the clutches of my father, and I was able to bind him to my will, so that he was forced to remain in his house beneath an Invisibility Cloak, while I impersonated him at the Ministry and at Hogwarts. It was not that difficult, after all," he smiled wickedly at me. "My father was never one for much in the way of interpersonal relationships, especially after my mother died. It was easy enough to fool everyone at the Ministry, and here as well — even Dumbledore! — into believing I was him. Even _you_, the great Professor Monroe, never rumbled to my true identity until now. It might have been different if someone like Mad-Eye Moody was still active, but I've heard he's busy chasing his shadow in retirement these days."

"Maybe," I shrugged, not interested in a moot argument with the smug little Death Eater, "but even so, I managed to detect and stop you before you were able to place a Portkey spell on the Triwizard Cup, to take Harry to where Lord Voldemort is."

Crouch stared at me a long moment, amusement in his eyes, then he chuckled maliciously. "You _are_ rather thick, aren't you, Professor Monroe? I haven't been acting alone, you know."

I frowned, not liking the sound of that at all. "Who, then —" and stopped, as something suddenly clicked in my brain. When I'd mentioned name "Voldemort" earlier, in front of the three Hogwarts students, both Hermione _and_ Dudley had flinched. But why would _Dudley_ flinch — the name should have held no special significance for him. "Come on," I said, gesturing for him to walk with me. He followed slowly as I retraced my steps back toward the Triwizard Cup, past the still-stunned giant spider, and to the area where it stood upon its plinth. Of Harry, Hermione and Dudley there was no sign.

I looked around, an uncomfortable feeling growing in my stomach. The Cup was still here, and my detection triggers on it had not gone off. "It's still here," I said, aloud. "But where could they have gone?"

"You thought I would enchant the Triwizard Cup _itself_?" Crouch laughed. "That would have been too obvious, too predictable, Professor!

"No, I used a much more subtle instrument to accomplish my task — Harry's Muggle cousin, Dudley! I made him a living Portkey!" I looked at him in shock.

"Surprised?" he grinned. "You shouldn't be — he was particularly interesting in being shot of you, Professor, since you were the one who turned him into a wizard, and his mother into a witch!"

"But he _wanted_ that!" I protested. "He even tricked me into believing he'd drunk all the potion, instead of holding some back for his mother!"

"A case of 'be careful what you wish for,' I suppose," Crouch shrugged. "Both of them have since realized that magic is a double-edged sword — it can be powerful, exciting, liberating, but you have to really know what you're doing to be any good at it, and neither of them was prepared for the sheer amount of learning they needed to be any good. I should know — I earned twelve O.W.L.s myself while I was at Hogwarts, and it nearly drove me mad."

"Nearly?" I repeated, sarcastically.

Crouch snorted, smirking at me. "You may think me mad, but only _I_ was able to bring together the people and materials needed to return the Dark Lord to his own body — not any of those traitorous cowards who betrayed him, breaking faith with our Lord and lying to keep themselves out of Azkaban!" He thrust his left arm forward, yanking his sleeve back to expose his skin. On his forearm, the Dark Mark was clearly discernible, no longer faded and unused. I looked at it, realizing with horror what it meant — that somehow, Voldemort had returned!

"Yes!" Crouch hissed. "He is back! He has returned! My master lives again!"

A sudden scream pierced the night, audible even through the sound-dampening wards of the maze. It was Harry that had screamed. I turned in the direction it had seemed to come from, and Crouch bolted, trying to escape. He took only two steps, however, before I cast a Binding Curse, ropes curling about him and binding his arms against his body. He stopped, unable to run at any speed with his arms against his side, and turned to me. "I wonder what we'll find when we return to the entrance of the maze. That's the spot I selected for Dudley to return to, _if_ he was able. I suspect he's the only person you'll find who has!"

So Crouch hadn't heard Harry scream; the magical silencing spells keeping outside noise out of the maze must still be in effect. I grabbed Crouch by the back of his neck, standing him up straight, then teleported both of us to the entrance of the maze, driving right through the Anti-Apparition wards placed on Hogwarts ground.

The scene at the maze entrance was utter chaos. People in the stands nearby were screaming and pointing down toward the opening, to the three figures who lay scattered in front of it. Hermione was lying flat on the ground, face up, her eyes staring upward; kneeling over her was Harry, his face a mask of dread and horror, his mouth still open from the scream I'd heard. Sprawled on the opposite side of Hermione was the crumpled form of Dudley Dursley, his features unmoving but twisted in pain. At another glance I could see why.

Dudley's right hand was missing.

I dropped Crouch on the ground, casting a Leg-Locker Curse on him as I moved toward Harry and Hermione. None of the other judges had yet moved —Maxime watched us, shocked, from the judges' table, and Dumbledore was speaking in rapid whispers with Professor Snape. Of Karkaroff there was no sign. I saw Hermione's parents in the stands being comforted by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley — Bill was there as well, as was his younger brothers and sister still at school. Ron looked distraught seeing Hermione lying on the ground, unmoving. Fred and George were holding him from running down to where we were.

Truth to tell, I was distraught as well. I could easily lay the blame for all this squarely at my own feet — I had allowed things to go on as long as they did, trusting my magical abilities and my Power were capable of fixing anything that came up. But death was the one thing in this universe I had no power over, because once a person's soul left their body, there was no coming back.

I dropped to my knees beside Hermione, opposite of Harry. He was sobbing uncontrollably, pressing his face against her neck. "Harry…" I whispered.

"She — she saved me…" Harry choked out, his voice wracked with sobs, and he began rocking and clutching at her. "V-Voldemort cast the — the Killing Curse — a-at me… She — stepped in front of it." He looked up at me, tears streaming down his cheeks. "It would have — killed me — but she — sacrificed _herself_ — to save me…" He shook his head helplessly. "But I can't — I don't…"

I put my hand across her forehead. If there was any way — _any_ way — to bring her back, I was going to find it! I let my consciousness flow into her brain, reigniting the pathways of her memories, looking for the essence of her soul. If even the tiniest portion of it was still here, attached to her physical form, I could latch onto it and draw her back.

In a fraction of a section, I poured through every moment of Hermione's fifteen years of life here on Earth. Her precocious beginning, as a gifted toddler and child, a prodigy of reading and questioning that her parents nurtured and cherished; her years in primary school, the girl that everyone looked to for answers, including in some cases the teachers themselves. The strange occurrences that began to happen when she turned seven: books that moved toward her on their own, objects that would fly off shelves as she walked by, the times she would wake up in her parents' garden, without remembering how she got there.

Finally, in July of her eleventh year, the letter came from Hogwarts, explaining her condition and magical abilities, and offering her the chance to attend a magical school, and her excitement at the prospect of gaining knowledge most people couldn't even dream about. The visit from Professor McGonagall, who brought her and her parents to Diagon Alley and directed them to Gringotts to exchange their Muggle money for Galleons, and the purchase of her books and equipment — and her wand! She was ever so elated when she held her first wand, and Mr. Ollivander, the old man with the bright, shining eyes, had smiled when her wand had sparked familiarly in her hand. Then the Hogwarts Express, and meeting Harry, and Ron.

"What are you doing?" I heard Harry whisper, hoarsely. "You c-can't bring her back, Uncle Jimmy — she's — she's dead…"

I shook my head. I had found a silver thread! It was attached to her memory of Harry, standing beside her, defiant before Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters, as Voldemort prepared to strike Harry with a Killing Curse. Harry had just recovered from the Cruciatus Curse, cast by Voldemort, and his reactions were slightly slowed. He had not expected Hermione to step in front of him as Voldemort shouted, "_Avada Kedavra_!" and the green bolt sped toward him — it could not be magically blocked, only physically. And she had done so, to save him —

"No," I whispered. I had come to the broken end of the silver cord — it ended with Hermione's final thought toward him, as the curse struck her — _Harry, I love you_! As I watched, numb with grief, the last portion of the silver thread evaporated into nothingness.

Hermione was no longer on this plane, no longer where I could reach her and bring her back from the brink of the what lies beyond this existence. I was able to do that once before, for another Harry, a lifetime ago, because a very small portion of his soul had clung to his body, refusing to let go, even after twenty years. But I could not do that here. Hermione was gone. She was dead.

"Harry, I'm so sorry," I said, my voice ragged and hoarse with pain. His head still lay across Hermione's breast, he still clung to her, unwilling to let go. "I wish I knew what to say to you, what to do…"

"What … to _do_?" Harry turned toward me, the look of pain and sorrow on his face becoming a mask of emotionless stone. "I loved Hermione more than anything on Earth, and Voldemort killed her — there is one task left to me, Professor, only one thing to do, now —

"Voldemort — _must_ — _DIE_!!"


	12. Voldemort Must Die!

**Ex Machina II**

**Chapter 12 – Voldemort Must Die!**

After Harry finished speaking, silence fell over everyone gathered at the final task of the Triwizard Tournament — only his anguished sobs could be heard as he leaned over Hermione's body, cupping her face in his hands. His last words to me — _Voldemort must die_! — echoed in all our ears.

Voldemort had returning from the almost-but-not-quite-dead state he'd been forced to endure for nearly fourteen years, killing Hermione Granger in the process, the culmination of the carefully-laid plans of his loyal servant, Barty Crouch, Jr., who I held next to me, arms bound at his sides. Harry's cousin Dudley Dursley, who'd been a pawn in the deadly game Crouch had played with the tournament contestants during the school year, lay on the ground next to Hermione. Like the pawn he'd been, Dudley had made his move, then was sacrificed — he was dead as well.

After a long moment Dumbledore stepped forward. "Professor Flitwick, please bring Miss Granger and Mr. Dursley's bodies to the infirmary." Flitwick turned toward them but Harry, still leaning over Hermione's still form, looked up at him mutinously, as if he would not allow anyone else to touch her. Dumbledore and I both looked at him, silently requesting his cooperation. Harry finally let out a shuddering sigh and stepped away from her body. Flitwick, taking out his wand, raised both bodies carefully into the air and began moving toward the castle.

"Minerva," Dumbledore continued quietly, to Professor McGonagall. "Please escort Mr. and Mrs. Granger, and Mrs. Dursley there as well." She nodded curtly, a look of inconsolable misery on her face, and gestured for the parents to follow her. The Grangers, both of whom were crying, turned to walk with her, but Petunia Dursley backed away, a wild expression on her face.

"No!" she cried, pointing an accusing finger at Dumbledore and me. "You murderers! _Murderers_! You wanted my Diddy killed, to silence him! That is why he was forced to participate in these outrageous events — you _wanted_ him dead! Next you'll silence _me_ —" She suddenly crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

I walked over to where Petunia had fallen and examined her. "She's fainted, I think," I said, looking at the others. It was possible someone had silently cast a Fainting Jinx on her, but I wasn't going to accuse anyone, as her wild allegations did need to be silenced before they caused more problems.

Dumbledore turned to Professor Snape. "Severus, would you bring her to the infirmary along with Professor McGonagall and the Grangers?"

Snape nodded, then looked at Barty Crouch. "What shall we do with Crouch's son?" he asked, in a tone that suggested he would very much like to spend some time interrogating him. "He may have information about the Dark Lord that we need."

"Excellent point, Severus," Dumbledore agreed. "Hagrid," he said to the half-giant, who'd been standing nearby, weeping into his tablecloth-sized handkerchief. "Will you escort Mr. Crouch to Professor McGonagall's office. She and Professor Snape will join you there shortly." Sniffling, Hagrid nodded assent.

Taking out his wand, Dumbledore pressed it to his throat, then spoke in an amplified voice. "All students please return to your common rooms. Prefects, please make sure all in your Houses are present and accounted for. Students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons visiting our schools, please return with your heads to your respective residences."

"Headmaster Karkaroff is not here!" one of the Durmstrang students spoke up.

"When was he last seen?" Dumbledore asked.

"Just before the Defense professor reappeared, with that man," the student pointed at Barty Crouch, who smiled maliciously.

"The traitor realizes he has seen his death!" Crouch cried out, struggling against the ropes still binding his arms to his sides. "He has betrayed the Dark Lord — he will not be long for this world! He —" his rant cut off as Hagrid took hold of him, a hand across his mouth, and began rather roughly moving him toward the castle.

"Keep yer trap shut," I heard Hagrid mutter to the much-smaller man. "Nobody wants teh hear anything yeh got ter say, boy."

The crowd began to disperse, leaving Harry and me alone with Dumbledore, who gestured for us to come with him. Silently we followed the throng back to the castle, through the entrance doors and up the main staircase, moving through the castle until at last we stood before the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Recognizing him, the gargoyle leapt aside and allowed us to get on the moving stairway that took us up.

In the office we found a large, black dog resting in front of the fire; I realized it must be Harry's godfather, Sirius Black. Dumbledore must have summoned him at some point, though Harry seemed as surprised to see him as I was. Seeing us, the dog came to his feet then transfigured back to human form.

Initially smiling, Black sobered quickly upon seeing the grim expressions on our faces. "What's happened?" he asked, his voice becoming tense.

"Voldemort has returned," Dumbledore replied, quietly. Black grimaced, stricken at the news, then saw Harry's expression.

"What else?" he said, directly to his godson this time.

"He…_killed_ Hermione," Harry finally said, his voice breaking with emotion.

"That bloody bastard!" Black swore. "But how was he revived?"

Harry recounted the events that had unfolded in the cemetery in Little Hangleton after he and Hermione were taken there by Dudley, who had been made into a living Portkey by Barty Crouch, Jr., posing as Ludo Bagman, presumably after disposing of the real Ludo while pretending to be his father, Bartemius Crouch, Senior, one of the officials running the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts this past year.

Harry and Hermione had run up to where the Triwizard Cup was, and Harry was telling her to touch it, so she would win, but she wanted to wait for me, the person she'd picked as her partner for the final Task. Dudley had come up and grabbed both of them by an arm, activating the Portkey spell that had been placed on him, and the three of them were whisked to the cemetery in Little Hangleton, where three cloaked and masked men, Death Eaters, were waiting for them. Two of them grabbed Harry, taking his wand, while the third held Hermione. Dudley, displaying a sudden surge of magical skill, levitated a large stone cauldron and firewood into the clearing.

The details of Voldemort's return are much the same as told in the canon story of _Goblet of Fire_, except that a fourth masked Death Eater had appeared carrying Voldemort's small, withered form, and placed him in the cauldron. Dudley performed the ritual, including cutting off his own hand and slashing Harry's arm to draw his blood, then placing both into the cauldron along with a bone from the grave of Tom Riddle, Sr. Thick steam billowed from the cauldron, obscuring it from Harry and Hermione's view, until they heard a high, clear voice say, "Robe me," and the Death Eater who had carried Voldemort's tiny form stepped toward the cauldron, black robes in hand, and held them as the tall, thin man raised his hands, allowing them to be draped over his form while Harry, Hermione and Dudley, cradling his maimed right wrist, watched.

Harry and Hermione were forced to listen as Voldemort gloated over them, praising the Death Eaters who had been instrumental in his return, and even offered a minor acknowledgement of Dudley's role in helping secure Harry Potter's blood, to which he was now immune, thanks to its inclusion in his restoration. I glanced toward Dumbledore as Harry said this, noting the small smile that suddenly flickered about the old man's lips.

Then, Voldemort ordered a space be cleared for Harry and him to duel. This, Voldemort said, was what he'd been waiting for all this time, ever since the moment he'd been robbed of his body, his power, and his right as the Dark Lord — the right of presiding over the Wizarding world. With Harry's death, he said, he would reestablish his dominance, and everyone would know that he was truly the Dark Lord.

Harry, weakened from the wound in his arm, was nevertheless more than willing to duel Voldemort, and his wand was tossed on the ground before him. As he picked it up, Hermione and Dudley were dragged aside by the other Death Eaters, and the two combatants faced each other. Harry, almost predictably, began with a Disarming Charm, which Voldemort blocked handily with a Shield Charm. Smiling viciously, he riposted with the Cruciatus Curse, and Harry fell to the earth, grimacing and crying out in pain, as Hermione screamed in terror to see him thrashing about on the graveyard grounds.

As Voldemort ended the curse, Hermione broke away from the Death Eater holding her, running toward Harry. The Death Eater took out his wand, but Voldemort held up a hand, stopping him from cursing her. "Let her go to him, one last time," the Dark Lord sneered, as Hermione dropped to her knees next to Harry, cradling his head in her lap. "Soon, they will both be dead, and forgotten."

"No!" Dudley said, lumbering forward to where Hermione knelt. He stood between her and Voldemort, almost protectively. "She was promised to me!" he said angrily, holding up his ruined arm. "In payment for my sacrifice for you, Master!"

"I made no such promise, boy," Voldemort replied, coldly. "Now be gone, before I forget any gratitude I might fleetingly hold toward your worthless self." Flicking his wand, Voldemort cast a Banishment Charm that flung Dudley a dozen feet away, to land in a crumpled heap in front of the two Death Eaters who had held Harry earlier.

"On your feet," the Dark Lord told Harry, whose body was still shaking so badly he could hardly move. Hermione tried to stop him, but with a supreme effort Harry lurched to his feet, reeling unsteadily, as Hermione stood by his side.

"Very _good_, Potter," Voldemort said, with mock amazement, as Harry faced him again. "You meet your doom well, for someone whose entire life has been a series of misfortunes and setbacks. A shame, really, that you opposed me so bitterly all this time — you might have made a fair Death Eater, had I allowed you to live."

"I would _never_ be one of your lackeys, Voldemort!" Harry replied, fiercely. "You'd have to kill me."

"Precisely what I intend," Voldemort grinned evilly, then shouted "_Avada_ —"

But as the Dark Lord completed the curse, Hermione suddenly stepped in front of Harry, shouting, "No! Harry, I —" as the green bolt struck her in the chest. She dropped to the ground.

"NO!" Both Harry and Dudley shouted. Harry dropped to his knees beside Hermione's body, while Dudley, who'd regained his feet only moments earlier, charged forward.

"YOU KILLED HER!" Dudley screamed, aiming a curse at Voldemort that bounced ineffectively off the shield he casually erected, then flicked his wand once more, casting the wand from Dudley's hand.

"Foolish boy," Voldemort sneered, as Dudley glared at him. "Did you truly believe I would grant even the least desire of a pathetic worm like yourself? You are not even worthy of being called a Mudblood."

"My father was right about all of you freaks!" Dudley shouted, as Voldemort leveled his wand at the young man's face. Dudley pointed toward Harry, who was now cradling Hermione's lifeless form as he looked up at the Dark Lord, hate and fury flashing in his emerald green eyes. "But Harry isn't going to let you get away with this — are you, Harry?" Dudley looked back at his cousin. "You're going to kill him back, aren't you?"

"_Avada Kedavra_!" Voldemort shouted, and a bolt of green energy slammed into Dudley, who jerked around in stunned surprise even as life fled his body. He fell over backwards, landing on top of Harry and Hermione, and the Portkey spell activated once again, pulling them all back to where the Portkey had originally been activated.

"And now," Harry finished, looking at his godfather. "I'm going to kill Voldemort."

"Harry," Sirius said, glancing at Dumbledore. "I know this was a terrible shock for you, but —"

"But nothing," Harry cut over him, flatly. "He killed Hermione, and he killed Dudley. He would have killed me — or I him — if we hadn't been taken away by the Portkey enchantment that was still on Dudley. I owe him for those deaths, and the deaths of my parents."

"It _is_ tragic, Harry," Dumbledore said, trying to calm him. "But it is foolhardy for you to attempt anything against Voldemort now —"

"Really? Why?" Harry turned to the old wizard. "He has just now regained his body, he will not be at full strength for another few days. He is still unorganized, still marshalling his Death Eaters to rally round him once again. They may not be organized, either — I gathered when we returned from the graveyard that Headmaster Karkaroff had fled Hogwarts. Some of Voldemort's Death Eaters may be searching for him. It seems like now would be an optimal time for us to pursue Voldemort, and stop him."

"Harry, there are aspects of this you do not understand —" Dumbledore began, but Harry shook his head, cutting off the headmaster.

"If you're referring to the Horcruxes," he said curtly. "I know all about them."

Dumbledore, looking nonplussed, glanced at me, frowning, but I shook my head. "I didn't tell him about them, Albus," I said, answering his unspoken question. "I would have, though, if he'd asked me what we would have to do to kill Voldemort."

"I found out about them in your library, Professor," Harry said to me. "When Professor Dumbledore had me stab Tom Riddle's diary with the Sword of Gryffindor, I wondered why we didn't just chuck the manky thing into a fire. I also wondered what kind of enchantment could allow someone's memories to take over a living person, like when the diary tried to take control of Luna Lovegood."

"A Horcrux?" Sirius said, looking pensive. "Remus once asked me a long time ago if I'd ever heard of such a thing. I hadn't, but when I asked him to explain he never got around to it. So it has something to do with Voldemort?"

"It's an object that is enchanted to hold a fragment of a wizard's soul," I explained, knowing Dumbledore would not volunteer the information. "You can only divide your soul by committing an act of murder. As long as the Horcrux exists, you can never be permanently killed, because it anchors your soul to this world."

"Ah!" Sirius gasped, as comprehension dawned on him. He looked revolted by the idea. "That is why he was able to come back, because he was never truly dead!"

"But he will be," Harry said, darkly. "I'm going to kill him."

At that moment there was a knock at the door of Dumbledore's office. "Enter," Dumbledore said, and Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Snape came in.

"Albus," McGonagall said, directly to Dumbledore, with barely a glance toward me, Harry or Sirius. "We've been questioning Barty Crouch, Jr. on his activities over the past year. He insists that he is the one responsible for Dudley Dursley's actions in bringing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named back to life." She then looked at me, her eyes flashing with anger. "He also said that Professor Monroe is partly responsible as well!"

"He's not wrong," I spoke up, before Dumbledore could ask me to explain. "But he's being deceptive about the reasons. I never wanted Voldemort's return —" I smiled humorlessly when McGonagall and Flitwick flinched at the name, and Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously "— but I was wrong about who was responsible for it. I suspected Dolores Umbridge at first, then later Ludo Bagman, but in both cases I was wrong. Umbridge is simply an obnoxious, petty Ministry official, looking to make trouble for Hogwarts in whatever way she can to keep Fudge and herself in power. Ludo Bagman was a pawn of Crouch, manipulated and discarded when he was no longer useful."

Harry laughed scornfully. "_You_ should talk, Professor," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You manipulated _me_, all these years, to make me into a weapon against Voldemort!"

"No," I said, shaking my head emphatically. "To _prepare_ you, Harry, for what you might have to do one day, but not to manipulate you toward that end."

"But here we are!" Harry exclaimed, spreading his hands to include everyone there. "I now desire Voldemort's death more than anything else! Is that not what you and everyone else here _wanted_ from me?!"

"No," I said again, but I knew his point was valid — I had helped prepare him to fight Voldemort, just as everyone expected him to do.

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter," Snape snapped. "You have no more chance of defeating the Dark Lord now than you did all those years ago! What happened then was purest luck!"

"No, it wasn't, Severus," Dumbledore said, turning to him. "It was a mother's love." Snape said nothing, but I saw his expression soften the tiniest fraction.

"Harry's points about attacking Voldemort now are valid," Dumbledore went on. He began enumerating them again for everyone's benefit. "He is not yet at full power, having just been restored to his original form. His followers are disorganized at the moment. Given what has just happened at the Triwizard Tournament, they will not be expecting an attack from us. It would, therefore, be advantageous to strike.

"Our disadvantages, however, while few in number, are quite serious," he added, soberly. He hesitated, looking at the other teachers, then shrugged fractionally. "We do not know the location of any of his current Horcruxes."

At the mention of the word "Horcrux" McGonagall clasped a hand to her chest with an astonished gasp, and Flitwick made a squeak of surprise; Snape, though remaining silent, nodded slightly, as if a suspicion of his had been confirmed.

"So _that's_ what his secret is!" McGonagall breathed, then looked accusingly at Dumbledore. "Albus, why didn't you _tell_ any of us about this!?"

"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead," I said, quoting Benjamin Franklin. She looked at me sharply. "Sorry, but in this case I agree with Dumbledore — the fewer people who know of them, the more of an advantage you have. If Voldemort discovered, or even suspected that we knew his secret, he would double or triple the security around his Horcruxes."

"You said 'Hocrux_es_,' Albus," Flitwick noted. "Are you saying You-Know-Who has more than _one_?"

"I believe so," Dumbledore nodded, and Flitwick and McGonagall both looked shocked. "We have already destroyed one — the diary that Miss Lovegood somehow came across, two years ago. After defeating the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets using the Sword of Gryffindor, I had Harry stab the diary with the sword, which had absorbed some of the Basilisk's venom; it is one of the very few substances that can destroy a Horcrux."

"How do we find the rest of them, then?" Harry asked grimly.

"I have begun searching for clues of their whereabouts," Dumbledore replied. "But I currently have only the vaguest of leads on any of them. That is what makes the Voldemort Problem so intractable — until we find and destroy those Horcruxes, we cannot permanently stop Voldemort."

"I can find the Horcruxes," I said suddenly. There were starts of surprise from around the room. McGonagall eyes were fairly flashing with anger again, and even Sirius, though there was a quirk of a smile on his lips, was looking at me with raised eyebrows. Snape snorted derision.

"You picked a rather convenient moment to tell us so, Monroe," the Potions Master said, contemptuously.

Dumbledore looked quite surprised himself. "Indeed, this is a most unsettling turn of events, James. If you knew how to find Voldemort's Horcruxes, I must ask why you didn't tell me — or Harry, for that matter, since you have been partial to making him privy to things not commonly known." Harry was giving me a hard look as well.

I sighed. "First of all, it was not a matter of not telling you — it was a matter of when you or Harry were going to be ready to do something about the Voldemort Problem," I responded. "I think that time has finally come.

"Secondly," I continued, "the spell requires a Horcrux, or the individual him- or herself, to locate any other Horcruxes that may have been created."

"We _had_ a Horcrux!" Harry said through gritted teeth. "That diary!" He looked at both Dumbledore and me with real anger in his eyes. "If we had saved that diary until now — _and_ if we'd known of a spell we could use to locate the other Horcruxes! — we could have destroyed them all before Voldemort returned!"

"No, we couldn't have," I said, looking significantly at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore looked back at me for a moment, then turned to the others and said, calmly, "Everyone except Harry and Professor Monroe will please leave my office."

"_What_?!" McGonagall said, shaken by his sudden, unusual request.

"See here, Dumbledore," Sirius began in a heated tone, but the headmaster held up a hand to forestall further dissent.

"Please, I must insist," he said, gesturing toward the office door. "I will ask you to return after Professor Monroe and I have discussed a certain — rather personal — matter with Harry." After a moment Sirius, McGonagall and the others walked out slowly, looking at one another, and at Harry, as if expecting one of them must know the answer to why they were being asked to leave. But I knew none of them could suspect that what Dumbledore and I knew — that Harry was a Horcrux himself.

When Voldemort had cast the Killing Curse at Harry, all those years ago, and it rebounded from the ancient blood protection magic Harry's mother had placed upon him at her death, a small piece of Voldemort's already torn and tattered soul had fissioned off and attached itself to the only other living thing present — Harry himself, who became an unintended seventh Horcrux.

After the door had closed behind the others, Dumbledore took out his wand and secured it against any attempt to listen in on us. "What's going on?" Harry asked. So he wasn't yet aware that he'd been "carrying" a piece of Voldemort's soul, all these years. I wondered if Dumbledore was prepared to tell him that. However, as was par for the course with the secretive and sometimes deceptive headmaster, it turned out he wasn't.

"As you may have surmised, Harry," Dumbledore began, "you have a special — connection with Voldemort. When he is near you, or feeling strong emotions, you can sense it through your scar."

"I've noticed that," Harry said, wryly. "It bloody hurts, sometimes!"

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. "I believe we can use that connection in conjunction, with Professor Monroe's spell, to trace the location of his Horcruxes."

Harry agreed immediately. "Do it, then."

"Are you sure, Harry?" I asked. I was not too happy with the deception we were using against him — he had no idea he _was_ a Horcrux, not merely a link to Voldemort but an unwitting repository for a fragment of his soul. As such, he would have to die so that Voldemort would become mortal again, unless I simply removed the bit of Dark Lord from him with my Power. _Well, I'll burn that bridge when I get to it_, I told myself.

I cast the spell. It took several seconds to recite the incantation, invoked in a long-unused language known only to a very few practitioners of the wizarding arts. Dumbledore was one such person, and he listened intently as I spoke the phrases incanting the spell. Harry suddenly slumped to his knees, his hands holding his head.

"It — it hurts!" he gasped. "My scar — throbbing — burning!"

"Why is it hurting him?" Dumbledore asked me, tensely. I shook my head. This spell was meant to be used on inanimate objects, or very evil men — murderers. No one could not have expected that someone like Harry would one day have to endure its effects.

A blue haze was forming above Harry's head, a glow emanating from his scar, where the fragment of Voldemort's soul was lodged. Within the glow, an image was forming, a scene that resolved into Harry, Dumbledore and myself, viewed from above, as if we were looking down upon ourselves. As we watched, the view pulled back, up through the ceiling of Dumbledore's office, above the entire school itself. The view began moving rapidly south, passing across the fields and valleys of Scotland and into northern England, heading rapidly toward London, where it dipped down into a dingy square and through the roof of one of the houses there, down through several floors and below ground level, through a kitchen area and into the boiler room; Dumbledore and I saw a rude bed made from rags and discarded blankets, and containing several items that looked like discarded clothes and broken picture frames and knick-knacks. Among these items was a heavy golden locket and chain bearing an ornate serpentine S-shape — an initial I recognized, as did Dumbledore, as Salazar Slytherin's emblem. The locket flashed with a deeper shade of blue, telling Dumbledore and me that it was one of the Horcruxes we were searching for.

"That is Sirius's home, in Grimmauld Square," Dumbledore murmured. "How odd that a Horcrux should be there — though as I recall, his younger brother Regulus became a Death Eater. He disappeared the year before Harry was born."

Harry moaned, and the scene shifted, moving up into the skies above London once again and northward, back to central Britain, where the view soared downward toward a copse of trees on a hillside, and within it, into a deserted, dilapidated house; the view came to rest beneath some flat stones near the hearth, where we could see someone had secreted a large, clumsily-made golden ring, set with a single large, black stone. The ring flashed blue, indicating another Horcrux.

"Little Hangleton," Dumbledore said. "That is the house of Marvolo Gaunt, Tom Riddle's paternal grandfather. His daughter Merope was Riddle's mother. I have seen that house in someone's memories. I —"

But before he could say more the view shifted, traveling rapidly south once again, this time moving past Grimmauld Square and dipping into Diagon Alley, where our viewpoint plunged into the white marble edifice of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Lower and Lower we sank into the depths of the vaults below the bank, until we passed a sleeping dragon, chained in place, and through the door of one of the vaults it was guarding, coming to rest upon a golden goblet with finely wrought and engraved handles, flashing blue as our view steadied.

"If I am not mistaken," Dumbledore said softly, "that is Helga Hufflepuff's Cup. As I learned when I first met him, Riddle has a propensity for collecting trophies."

The view moved again, this time to the county of Devon in the west, where we found ourselves traveling downward into a stately manor, a home I recognized as belonging to the Malfoy family. It was not hard to guess what we would find here, and moments later the view passed into the main hallway, where Voldemort was seated at a long table with several robed men, Lucius Malfoy among them. At his side was a large, green snake — Nagini, which glowed momentarily blue.

"We have seen four Horcruxes so far," Dumbledore said — unnecessarily, of course, as I'd been keeping track as well. "If Voldemort has thought along the lines I expect him to, then we should discover one more Horcrux. Counting the diary, that would make six, meaning his soul was divided seven ways, seven being the most powerful magical number."

_Except that he doesn't realize that Harry is a seventh Horcrux_, I thought to myself. Harry groaned painfully, and we watched as the view shifted upwards once again and flew northward, toward and into Hogwarts, moving through walls and floors until it suddenly passed into darkness, a cloudy, amorphous mass through which vision was impossible. Suddenly there appeared a small tiara, sparkling brightly, that glowed blue as I looked at it.

"Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem…" Dumbledore muttered, bemused. "And it seems to be somewhere at Hogwarts, no less! Tom only returned once after his time at the school, to apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, shortly after I became headmaster. I could not allow it, of course. Apparently, however, he found the diadem and made a Horcrux from it. But — _where_ is it now?"

The glowing image faded. Harry, shaking with the pain the spell had caused, looked up at the two of us. "Did you find out where the Horcruxes are?" he asked, weakly. Dumbledore and I both nodded. "Good," he croaked, panting, exhaustion in his voice.

"Our task is far from finished, Harry," Dumbledore said, a measure of caution in his voice. "We must still acquire the Horcruxes, destroy them, then either find Voldemort or lure him to us."

"We do not have to seek him out now, Harry," I added. Harry turned sharply toward me, looking incredulous that I would say something like that to him after everything he'd been through today. "We know where the Horcruxes are, we can find them and bring them here, and destroy them, then take our time making a plan to find Voldemort and kill him."

"He'll just make more Horcruxes!" Harry objected, heatedly.

"He might try," Dumbledore agreed. "But his soul has been shredded more times than any other wizard has attempted — if he tries to make any more, he may not survive."

"You don't know that!" Harry pointed out. "You're just speculating!"

"I am," Dumbledore nodded. "But my speculations generally turn out to be correct."

"Well, I don't want to take the chance, however small, that you may be wrong, Professor," Harry said, earnestly. "Voldemort has to pay for what he did to Hermione and my cousin!"

"Very well," Dumbledore sighed. "Will you go down and get the others and bring them back to my office, please? They should be waiting at the base of the staircase."

Harry nodded and exited the Headmaster's office, moving slowly. After he'd gone Dumbledore looked at me. "Do you think Harry will be able to go through with it, and kill Voldemort?"

I was silent for several moments. "I don't know," I said at last. "Harry is no killer. He might defend himself, but no more."

"I tend to agree," Dumbledore nodded, after I finished. "The death of Hermione Granger has seriously unbalanced him, however. I was not aware their relationship had ripened to that level of intimacy. Were you, James?"

Whether he was genuinely interesting in knowing, or simply trying to asses my knowledge of the matter, I did not let my emotions betray me to his Leglimency. "I knew they were dating one another, but Harry assured me they were only friends at this point. In fact, they'd had a row some months back, and Hermione went to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum."

"Ah, yes, I recall that now," Dumbledore said, pensively. "Well, I would not expect quite so violent a reaction from Harry over the death of his cousin — it seemed the two had been friends in the past, but Dudley's gaining wizarding abilities seems to have altered that."

The reasons for the enmity between Harry and Dudley were likely very complicated, but I suspected it now had more to do with the relationship between Harry and Hermione than the one between Harry and Dudley, from what Harry had said about Dudley's "claim" on Hermione in the graveyard in Little Hangleton.

The door opened and Harry returned with Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Snape, with Sirius trailing behind them. "Thank you for waiting," Dumbledore told them, without giving further detail of what we'd discussed. "Professor Monroe cast the spell and we have identified the current Horcruxes created by Voldemort."

"What did you use to cast the spell?" Snape asked. "Monroe said the spell required a Horcrux, or the person they were created from, to find the rest?"

"Here is what we discovered from the spell," Dumbledore went on, ignoring Snape's question. "A heavy golden locket and chain, with a stylized serpentine 'S' engraved on it, is located somewhere in number twelve Grimmauld Place, in a place filled with rags, dirty blankets, and discarded trinkets."

Sirius looked startled. "In my house?" he exclaimed. "That's preposterous! Except —" he considered for a moment, then seemed to realize the answer. "My brother Regulus may have had something to do with it! He was a Death Eater, and lord knows Kreacher, our house-elf, always favored him over me — a place of rags and dirty blankets sounds like his nest. I'll go and get it!"

Dumbledore gave a small nod. "There is also Helga Hufflepuff's cup, located in Gringotts Wizarding Bank, in vault 912, according to the information we received from the spell. That is the Lestrange family vault, if I am not mistaken, and I am sure I'm not," he added, smiling. "It would be appropriate if Professor Sprout could help us with this, but I believe it would be better if you, Severus and Minerva, were to be the ones to retrieve it."

"Goodness, Albus!" McGonagall exclaimed, as Snape frowned. "Do you expect _us_ to break into Gringotts?"

"I am not completely convinced you couldn't, if need be, Minerva," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling merrily. "But no, I believe a more circumspect approach is advisable."

"You could go to Azkaban," I suggested, "and get some of the Lestranges' hair to use in a Polyjuice Potion, then travel to Gringotts posing as them and have the goblins admit you to their vault. Snape should be able to tell if there are any enchantments on the Goblet, protecting it." There were, I knew, but if anyone (other than Dumbledore himself) could counter those Dark spells, it was Snape.

McGonagall looked unhappy, but — "Well, we can try, at least — I can have a try at impersonating Bellatrix." She looked at Snape. "Unless _you_ would like that honor, Severus?" Her mouth quirked in an unusual way — was she actually attempting a _joke_?

"I believe I can be more convincing as her husband, Rodolphus," Snape said icily, ignoring her attempt at humor. "We should prepare for the trip to Azkaban, and from there to Gringotts."

"We will meet in 15 minutes in your office, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "Be sure and bring a small item you might normally keep with you, to use as a Portkey." Snape and McGonagall both nodded and left the office.

"The next Horcrux is a gold ring, located in the ruins of the Marvolo Gaunt family home, near Little Hangleton," Dumbledore went on, after they'd gone. "Marvolo Gaunt was the maternal grandfather of Tom Riddle, Jr., and was descended from Salazar Slytherin himself. I have been studying Riddle and his family for the past several years now. Since I have some familiarity with the location, I will retrieve the ring from there." Harry, Sirius and Flitwick all nodded. I said nothing, though I had a bit of misgiving about letting Dumbledore go after the ring alone. Would he be able to resist using it, once he saw the image on the stone?

"The snake, Nagini, is with Voldemort at Malfoy Manor, in Devon," Dumbledore said. "We will have to attend to it last, after all the other Horcruxes are destroyed. With Riddle's diary already gone, that leaves only Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem, located somewhere here within Hogwarts."

"Ah!" Flitwick said in surprise, eyes gleaming with both excitement and dismay behind his spectacles. "Can that really be so, Albus? The school has been searched time and again over the centuries for any clues of its whereabouts! To think that You-Know-Who was able to find and use it for his own, twisted ends is… appalling."

"We were not able to see where it was hidden, Filius," Dumbledore told him. "I do not understand why, but it is definitely somewhere inside the school."

"We will find it, then!" Flitwick said determinedly. "I will have every Ravenclaw still here looking for it, unceasingly!"

"What about me?" Harry demanded. "Who'm I going with? How about with you, Professor Dumbledore?"

"Harry, I would prefer that you remain here and rest, after your ordeal," Dumbledore said, giving me a significant look. "If you intend to duel Voldemort, you will need to be rested and prepared to fight him."

Harry looked mutinous, but I wanted him here as well — for different reasons. "I agree with Professor Dumbledore, Harry — you need to rest." The look I gave him, however, let him know I had something else in mind.

"Fine, have it your way," Harry said with feigned chagrin, playing the part. "I'll stick around.

Twelve minutes later we gathered again, this time in Professor McGonagall's office. Snape had procured vials of Polyjuice Potion — two for him and two for McGonagall — "In case anything happens to go wrong," he explained to Dumbledore. "Not that anything will, given Professor McGonagall's and my skill in such matters." This time it was Sirius's turn to snort derision.

"I shouldn't have any trouble with Kreacher," Sirius said confidently, taking a small statuette Dumbledore had enchanted as a Portkey to Grimmauld Place. "He _has_ to obey me, after all — I should be back with the locket in a few minutes." Saying the trigger word Dumbledore had given him, he vanished in a whirlwind of color.

"I'm meeting with the Ravenclaw prefects in five minutes," Flitwick said. "We will mobilize the rest of the House and comb the school from top to bottom for her diadem!"

"Be careful not to give them too much information about _why_ we are looking for the diadem, Filius," Dumbledore warned.

"Of course not," Flitwick agreed, amiably. "Just the now strong probability that it is located somewhere within the school will be enough!" He looked positively giddy at the prospect of finding Ravenclaw's diadem. I wonder if he had yet considered that we would have to destroy it once we found it. Flitwick waved goodbye cheerfully then bustled off to his meeting.

Taking an empty potion bottle proffered by Snape, Dumbledore tapped it with his wand, murmuring the word "_Portus_." The bottle shivered and glowed blue momentarily. "That will take anyone touching it to the street outside Gringotts, when you say the words 'Diagon Alley' while holding it," Dumbledore told him. Snape nodded and placed the bottle in one of his robe pockets. "Be sure you are well outside the walls of Azkaban when you use it — the Ministry frowns upon the use of Portkeys to arrive at or leave the island."

"Especially illegal ones," McGonagall said matter-of-factly. She held out a small book, a collection of poems by Musidora Barkwith, which Dumbledore tapped as well. The book trembled and glowed blue.

"There," Dumbledore nodded. "That will take you and Severus to Azkaban when you say the phrase, 'Wizarding Suite.'" McGonagall nodded, impressed at the headmaster's recall — Musidora was also the composer of that unfinished piece, which featured, among other musical oddities, an exploding tuba.

After Snape took the book from Dumbledore, McGonagall pulled him off to one side for a private word. I focused my attention on their conversation — there could be no "private moments" where an outcome as important as the destruction of Voldemort's Horcruxes was concerned.

"I went by the infirmary before returning," McGonagall was telling the headmaster, "to check on the situation there. Crouch has been given a Draught of Living Death — he will be asleep for some time." Dumbledore nodded, satisfied with this news. "I also checked on the Grangers and Petunia Dursley," McGonagall continued, frowning. "Poppy told me the Dursley woman regained consciousness and suddenly ran from the infirmary. I asked some of the prefects to search for her, but she hasn't been found yet."

"Distraught, no doubt, by the death of her son," Dumbledore said, sadly. "Perhaps she has gone home to Surrey."

"Can we afford to take that chance, Albus?" McGonagall asked, seriously. "She might be running headlong into danger!"

"We are stretched too thin as it is, Minerva," Dumbledore said shortly. "We will find her after the situation with Voldemort is cleared up." McGonagall nodded unhappily and rejoined Snape, who looked inquisitively at her but remained silent, at least while they were still in her office. McGonagall reached out, touched the book and said, "Wizarding Suite" — in a flash of whirling color they were gone.

"My desk is beginning to look a bit empty," Dumbledore remarked offhandedly, finally choosing a spare quill to use as a final Portkey, for himself. "This should suffice," he said, tapping it with his wand.

Before leaving, however, the headmaster turned to Harry. "Are you sure you're prepared for this, Harry? Even if we destroy all the other Horcruxes, and manage to locate Voldemort's snake, Nagini and kill it as well, there is no guarantee you will triumph in a duel with him."

"I will," Harry said, with finality. "He killed Hermione, and my cousin, as well as too many other people, over the years. He deserves to die."  
Dumbledore nodded, then looked at me. "Keep him safe, James. I shall return shortly with Marvolo Gaunt's ring." He disappeared in a whirlwind of color.

Harry turned to me, folding his arms across his chest and giving me an uncharacteristically belligerent stare. "So now what, _Professor_ Monroe?"

"I thought you might want to help me find Ravenclaw's diadem," I replied, mildly, ignoring his confrontational pose. "To honor Hermione, since she was in Ravenclaw House."

Harry's attitude softened a bit. "She told me the legend of that diadem, sir. Students have searched the school from top to bottom for centuries, on the off chance that she hid it somewhere within its walls. No one has found it yet."

"They were never sure it was here," I added. "That's changed, now — we _know_ it is here. The spell did not reveal any of it surroundings when it showed Dumbledore and me the tiara, however, so we do not have a point of reference for where it might be." I decided to add a final hint, to see if he would make the connection. "We only know that it has been a _lost_ _thing_ for all that time."

But Harry merely looked at me. "I don't know how that helps us, sir," he said with a shrug, and I realized that he'd probably never seen the Room of Requirement in its "lost things" mode.

I tried a different tack. "Perhaps you should think of it as something we _need_ to find," I said, emphasizing the word _need_. I couldn't draw much plainer a picture for Harry without simply telling him where it was.

But he'd made the connection. "Ah!" Harry said, brightening as he saw what I was saying. "So maybe if we _require_ finding a _lost thing_, we can use —"

I nodded. "I presume you know what Room I mean?"

But Harry didn't reply immediately. He appeared distracted, and stood unmoving for several moments. I watched him curiously, waiting to see what he was doing; he slid a hand slowly into a robe pocket, then glanced at me. "Shall we go, then, Professor?"

"Certainly I said, and turned to lead the way from McGonagall's office. But I had taken no more than a few steps when Harry suddenly shouted "_Petrificus Totalus_!" behind me. _What was he doing_? I thought, as I spun around, knowing I didn't have enough time to block a spell directed at my back without moving at superhuman speed.

But Harry spell was aimed, not at me, but toward a corner of the room, where a moment later we heard the _thump_ of a body hitting the floor. Harry rushed over to where the sound had come from, feeling around the floor for a moment, then pulled away a gray, translucent cloak, revealing the paralyzed body of Petunia Dursley. Her eyes glared up at him as he stared at her.

"I _thought_ I sensed someone's eyes on me," Harry said. "You've been listening to our conversations, haven't you, Petunia?" When she made no reply (obviously, still being paralyzed) he pointed his wand at her, and she rose slowly into the air, turning upright until her form stood frozen before us. "_Finite_," he said, ending the spell. "Well?" he added as, once able to move again, she began furiously shaking imaginary dust from her robes.

"Well, _yourself_," she snapped. "Yes, I've been listening in on you and Dumbledore, to find out who's responsible for my Dudley's death!"

"Now you know," I said, walking over to stand next to Harry. "As you should have already known, Voldemort killed him and Hermione Granger only a few hours ago."

"And now you'll try to kill him, after disposing of his — his Horcruxes," she added. I grimaced internally, my worst fears confirmed. If she knew about Horcruxes we could not let her leave the castle, any more than we could allow Barty Crouch to be taken by Ministry Aurors before we'd had the chance to stop Voldemort.

But Harry had noticed something else. "My Invisibility Cloak!" he exclaimed, examining what he'd pulled off her before restoring her movement. "How did you get it — it was locked in the trunk in my dormitory!"

Petunia smirked as she held up one hand, displaying a black glove. "I have access to magical items too now, boy. This Shadow Glove allowed me to reach into your trunk and retrieve your Cloak. I was planning on using it to escape the castle, but the opportunity to listen in on your conversation presented itself and I took it."

"You know you're not going anywhere, now, Petunia!" I said. "We can't allow you to leave."

"Oh, no?" She smiled nastily at me. "That's too bad." She put a hand to her chest, as if to catch her breath; her fingers touched a small pendant dangling there, a shape I recognized too late as a stylized S-shape. Even as I reached for it, she vanished in a whirl of color and wind. The pendant had been a Portkey!

"No wonder those damned things are restricted!" I snarled, angry that she had escaped. Knowing about Voldemort's Horcruxes, there was no telling what kind of damage she could do to our plan to stop him.

"She's not important," Harry said, dismissing her. "Let's go find that diadem!" He turned to leave but stopped, gripping his arm, the one that had been cut by Dudley to procure some of his blood, and I realized it was still bleeding.

"Sorry, Harry!" I said, taking out my wand. I pointed it at his arm, muttering a healing spell, and the gash closed immediately.

"Thanks," Harry said. "To tell the truth, I hadn't paid it any mind until just then. _Now_ let's go get that diadem."

We made our way to the Room of Requirement. On the walk there, Harry looked at me curiously. "When did you find out about the Room of Requirement, Professor? Did — did Hermione tell you about it?" he asked, his voice faltering a bit.

"She mentioned to me that you had found it last year," I told him, gently, as we ascended the staircase to the seventh floor. "But I've known about it for some time."

"How long?" Harry asked.

I'd known about the Room of Requirement ever since I'd read the stories about Harry Potter, back when I was a normal human being. But I could hardly tell Harry that, so I said only, "Dumbledore once mentioned needing to find a toilet late one night, and finding a room filled with chamber pots. That's when I surmised there might be a room that could provide whatever they required."

We entered the corridor where the entrance to the Room was located, opposite a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching ballet to trolls. Harry paced back and forth in front of the tapestry, muttering, "We need to find the lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw," under his breath. On his third pass, as expected, a heavy wooden door appeared in the wall. Harry leaped toward it, wrenching it open, and we stepped inside the room. "Whoa," he said, looking around. Even I, who knew what to expect in the Room of Lost Things, was impressed.

The room was the size of a large cathedral, inexplicably lined with windows that were shining light down upon what looked like walls and towering edifices of objects that had been hidden or lost by Hogwarts students over dozens of generations. There were piles and piles of broken and dusty furniture of all types and sizes, stacks and cases full of books and scrolls, piles of moldy robes and other clothing, toys and weapons and knick-knacks and trinkets of all ages, ranging from hundreds of years ago to Fanged Frisbees and Pet Trolls. Harry stared at all of this in astonishment, then turned to me.

"How in the world are we going to find that diadem in all of _this_?"

"I'm open to suggestions," I said, plaintively, surveying the vastness of the room. In truth, it would take only a matter of a few seconds for me to find it, employing the powers I was capable of, but we had some time before that might become necessary. "Why don't you try a Summoning Charm?"

Harry gave me a bemused glance, but dutifully took out his wand. "_Accio_ Ravenclaw's Diadem!" he said in a loud voice, waving his wand in the prescribed manner. Nothing came flying through the air toward us.

"Figures," he said, lowering his wand. "That would've been too easy, wouldn't it? _Now_ what?"

"Now, we start looking," I said, with a shrug. Harry looked around the room again, then back at me, and sighed resignedly.

"Isn't there some kind of spell we can use?" he asked, insistently. "We'll be looking for bloody _years_ for this thing, as big as this room is!"

I considered for a moment. "According to the descriptions I've read, it's a small tiara, made probably from silver but possibly from electrum. It would not be very big, of course, since it was meant to fit around a woman's forehead. We can try the Finding Charms for silver and electrum and see what we come up with — there can't be many things in here made of those materials."

Harry nodded. "I'll look for silver," he said. "If you find it first, give a yell." He pointed his wand toward a pile of books stacked in dusty bookcases. "_Comperio argentum_!" There was no revealing flash and Harry moved deeper into a corridor of debris, casting the spell again and again as he went.

I took out my own wand and walked in the opposite direction, looking for electrum, a naturally occurring metal consisting of silver and gold, but I knew that the tiara was silver — Harry would find it first, unless I cheated and used my powers to locate it immediately, something I didn't intend to do.

Ironically, several minutes later we had both circled around to almost the same location when Harry's spell struck paydirt. "Here it is!" he shouted, just around the corner of a pile of old drawing room chairs — his wand was pointing at a cupboard. The door was partly ajar and we could see the bust of some ugly wizard resting on an old book, a scraggly wig atop its head; perched upon the wig was a tarnished tiara.

Harry started to reach for it but I said, "Hold it!" and he stopped, giving me an impatient look. "Let me check it out first," I said, casting some detection spells at it to determine if it had been cursed or protected in any way. It wasn't, however, and I floated the book and bust out of the cupboard and onto the counter below it. I carefully picked up the tiara, examining it. It matched the few descriptions of the artifact given by Ravenclaw scholars. I nodded at Harry.

"Good," he breathed, slumping tiredly against the cupboard; the motion jostled the old wizard's bust and it fell off the book onto the countertop. Annoyed, Harry pushed the bust away, then stopped, staring at the book it had fallen off of.

"Let's go," I said to him, starting to turn away to find the exit. "We should get back to McGonagall's office to see if Sirius, Dumbledore or the others have returned."

"Wait a minute," Harry said. He picked the old book off the countertop, pulling an old piece of parchment from between its pages. "There's something familiar about this —" He opened the piece of parchment, and I saw his face change. "Listen to this," he said, and began reading:

* * *

_To anyone finding this,  
**Beware** using any spells or instructions changing the potions within this book — they were added by someone calling himself the **Half-Blood Prince**. These spells are **dark** in nature and should be avoided.  
I was given this book by two brothers, who found it in a shelf in the Potions classroom and gave it to me for examination, but I could not in good conscience give it back to them or allow anyone to use it. I have placed it here, in the Room of Lost Things, so that it will be hidden from those who might use it for the wrong reasons.  
If you are reading this, **please** consider leaving the book in this room. No good can come of removing or using it._

* * *

"It's not signed," Harry said, holding the parchment in front of me. "But I know this handwriting — it's Hermione's!"

I looked at the book. It was _Advanced Potion-Making_ by Libatius Borage, the book that Harry himself had found in the sixth canon novel. "What are you going to do with it? She said to leave it here."

"I know," Harry said, looking torn. "But — but — I…can't just _leave_ it here, Professor! Not if she's looked through this book, studied it!"

I wasn't going to argue with him about it. "Well, we've got what we came for," I said, holding up the diadem. "Let's get back." We hurried from the Room of Requirement, making our way back toward the deputy headmistress's office. On the way, we passed several groups of Ravenclaw students, all of whom were conferring gravely over possible locations for the lost diadem. I said nothing to them; it would not do to let the entire school know we'd found a lost artifact of the Founders, only to turn around and immediately destroy it!

As we neared McGonagall's office, we heard someone in there gasping in pain. Hurrying inside, we found Professor Dumbledore lying on the floor, holding his right arm. "Professor!" Harry shouted, dropping the book he was carrying and racing to the headmaster's side. "What's wrong?"

"Ring — cursed —" Dumbledore managed to gasp, as I reached his side, and Harry looked up at me, uncertain what to do.

"Sit him up," I said quickly, and we each took one of the headmaster's shoulders and pulled him to a sitting position. Not wasting time, I took hold of the sleeve of his robe and pulled, tearing it free and revealing his arm. Harry gasped, and I winced in sympathy.

Dumbledore's arm was withering before our very eyes, blackening and shriveling as we watched. On one of his fingers, which now looked more like s dead branch than a living thing, was a crudely made, golden ring set with a single black stone.

"I'm afraid — I quite forgot myself," Dumbledore muttered, not looking at either of us. "I saw — I saw…but it is too late," and he fell silent, saying no more.

"Can you stop it, Professor?" Harry asked me anxiously. "It's a curse, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said, shortly. My wand was already pointed at the ring on Dumbledore's finger, and I groaned as my magical detection spells told me what I had already surmised: Voldemort had laid one of the most deadly curses imaginable on the ring, one that could never be removed nor countered. Clearly, he had intended that no one would ever again wear this ring, not even himself. A normal human would have been reduced to ashes in seconds; in Dumbledore's case, his magical resistance was slowing the curse, but only temporarily. Additional magic would slow it further, as Snape had done, reducing its advance to a slow crawl, but it could never completely stop it. Dumbledore was doomed.

However, I was not going to allow that.

I pointed my wand at Dumbledore's arm, but instead of magic I brought my Power to bear on the unstoppable curse, halting it and reversing its course. The blackness slid down his arm as color and vitality returned to his sinews, until finally his entire arm was restored to normal, as the ring slid off his finger, falling to the floor of McGonagall's office.

"Cool!" Harry cheered, but Dumbledore glanced up at me, and I could sense apprehension in his eyes and his thoughts. He may have understood the nature of the curse that was affecting him, and if so, he probably realized that I had just done something no wizard on Earth could have done. He looked at me, starting to say something, but I gave a small shake of my head, and he remained silent.

We helped Dumbledore get slowly to his feet. The headmaster seemed shaken but had regained his composure. "Thank you," he murmured to Harry and me. "I fear I was quite unprepared for the intensity of the ring's enchantment."

"What possessed you to put it on?" Harry demanded, angry now that the danger had passed. "Wasn't it obvious that Voldemort would have cursed it, to keep anyone else from wearing it?!"

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore said, looking around to see where the ring had fallen. "But when I saw it, there was the Death—" he cut himself off.

"The death?" Harry repeated blankly, looking at Dumbledore then me. "What do you mean, sir?" Dumbledore shook his head, as if confused, but I knew he was merely covering his near slip-up. He had almost said, "Deathly Hallows."

Harry was about to press him further about the ring when there came a sudden whirlwind in the middle of the room as Sirius Black returned via his Portkey. "That manky house-elf," he said in a vexed tone, crossing the room to drop a heavy gold locket onto McGonagall's desk. "Tried to pretend he'd never seen or heard of such a locket! Took me ten minutes just to _find_ the little bugger, he didn't even want to talk to me!" He turned, looking at the three of us, and noticed the headmaster's pallor.

"What's the matter, Dumbledore, you look like you've seen a ghost," he said, with a chuckle. "Not that hard a proposition around _here_, is it, eh?"

"The ring was cursed, Sirius," Harry told him. "He tried to wear it, and it nearly killed him. Professor Monroe was able to save him, though."

"Bloody hell, Albus!" Sirius exploded. "Didn't you think there'd be a curse on that ring? Why'd you put it on?"

"That's what I asked him!" Harry added. "He said something about death —"

"It's not important right now," I interrupted, to distract them. "We've got three of the Horcruxes so far — we'd better decide what we're going to do with them."

"We're going to destroy them!" Harry said at once. "How else are we going to get rid of Voldemort?"

"Are you still planning on killing him, Harry?" I asked, evenly.

"Yes!" Harry said, fiercely. "I've told you — he must die for what he did to Hermione and my cousin!"

"Then we should be prepared to deal with them," I said, turning to Dumbledore. "Professor, we should go get the Sword of Gryffindor so we can destroy these Horcruxes."

Dumbledore nodded. "I will do so immediately, and return. The rest of you wait here while I fetch it." He left the room, leaving Harry and me with Sirius. After he'd gone, Sirius drew close to Harry, asking in a low voice, "Does Dumbledore seem to be slipping a bit to you, Harry?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Well, that business with the ring," his godfather said, looking at the offending object, which I'd placed on McGonagall's desk next to the diadem and locket. "He wouldn't normally have been that careless about a dangerous object." Black peered closely at the ring, squinting. "Interesting — there's a symbol etched onto the black stone in the ring's setting."

Harry looked closer as well. "I see it," he said. "It looks like a triangle with a circle in the middle of it, and a line dividing the circle in two. What's that supposed to mean — I've never seen anything like it."

"I have," Sirius said grimly, standing up again. "It was the symbol used by Gellert Grindelwald when he tried to take over Wizarding Europe, back in the 1940's. I remember Professor Binns describing it once, in our History of Magic class." When Harry looked at him, incredulous, after a moment he shrugged and said, "Okay, Remus told me he about it. _But_," he added, "he _did_ hear about it from Binns — said there wasn't anything about such a symbol in any book or periodical he ever read."

"But Professor Dumbledore said this ring belonged to Marvolo Gaunt, who descended from Salazar Slytherin," Harry objected, skeptically. "What was Grindelwald's connection with Slytherin — did he go to Hogwarts?"

"No," Sirius said, now looking uncertain. "He went to Durmstrang, though — one of the schools that competed in the Triwizard Tournament! Professor Binns said that he'd traveled there once, to see the place — that symbol was inscribed over the entrance. It's well-known that Durmstrang has no objections to teaching the Dark Arts to its students. Although," he added, pensively, "Grindelwald was in fact _expelled_ from Durmstrang due to some of the things he did while there. Hmm, this doesn't add up…"

The room suddenly flashed colorfully as a mini-whirlwind erupted again in its center — hopefully, this would be McGonagall and Snape returning from Gringotts, with Helga Hufflepuff's cup. But when they finally appeared, it was in an entirely unexpected condition — Snape was embracing Professor McGonagall!

"What the hell —" Sirius began, but the moment they landed Snape spun on his heel, lowering McGonagall to the floor as smoke began to rise from her form. Harry gasped and Sirius cursed as we saw that she had been badly burned. Her face was horribly scorched—we could see that Snape had wound a cloak about her neck and shoulders, covering the burns to the upper part of her body.

"Dragon," Snape said shortly. "The goblins discovered our deception, somehow, though our performances were flawless — we barely escaped, but not before the professor was burned." He took a small brown phial of liquid — I recognized it as essence of dittany — from his robes and placed several drops on her face. Each drop caused a large bloom of green smoke to puff upwards from her skin as it spread. Within a few moments she went from looking charbroiled to having a bad sunburn. "She will survive," he said curtly, "though I will need to get her to Madame Pomfrey soon, for more potions and restoratives."

Looking relieved to see that his Head of House was no longer in danger of death, Harry turned to the Potions Master. "Did you get the Cup?" he asked.

Snape stood, regarding Harry with a mixture of dislike and grudging respect. "You would do well, Potter, to show more respect to those who do your dirty work for you."

"Did you get it, _Professor_?" Harry repeated, his mocking tone all too evident.

"Do not take that tone with me —" Snape began, dangerously, but at that moment Professor Dumbledore reappeared, carrying the Sword of Gryffindor, with Professor Flitwick in tow.

"What has happened?" he asked; then, seeing McGonagall lying on the floor, he hurried over to her side. "Minerva! We should get her to Poppy with all haste. Unless —" he looked over at me. "Professor Monroe?"

"I have soothed the worst of her injuries, Headmaster," Snape interjected, giving me a venomous glare. "She is not in danger."

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said, not taking his eyes from me. "But I hope that Professor Monroe can be even more help to her."

I understood immediately what he meant. Dumbledore had known Minerva McGonagall for many years — perhaps theirs was the longest acquaintance of anyone at the school, and now he was concerned for her well-being. Nodding, I took out my wand and pointed it toward her. Her face and hands returned to their normal pasty white pallor, though I did tighten up some of her more unsightly wrinkles a bit. I did not think she would mind much.

Harry, who had come to expect such feats of healing from me, nodded in satisfaction; Professor Flitwick, however, squeaked "Good gravy!" at her transformation, and Snape, while saying nothing, raised an eyebrow in surprise as McGonagall's eyes fluttered open. She looked around for a moment, confused by her surroundings. "Severus, how did we get here?" she asked. "That dragon —"

"Nearly succeeded in catching us," Snape finished, removing the Hufflepuff Cup from within his robes. "But you managed to hold it off long enough for me to find this, and to get us out of the Lestranges' vault." Eyes locked on Harry, he handed the Cup to Dumbledore, who took it, and whose eyes, meeting mine for a moment, showed their gratitude for McGonagall's recovery.

Next, hefting the Sword of Gryffindor, and gesturing for Harry to take it, Dumbledore remarked, "Now, as a very wise man once wrote, quite coincidentally, 'Venom, to thy work.'" Then began the strangest spectacle I had yet seen here: Harry stabbed Horcrux after Horcrux with the Sword. Hufflepuff's Cup was destroyed first, with Harry thrusting the Sword through its bottom; next came the ring — the black stone split with an audible _crack_ as Harry thrust the tip downward into it, as Dumbledore and I steadied it magically on end. The diadem initially presented a problem, as there was no obvious place to stab; also, Flitwick insisted on looking at it carefully, from every angle possible beforehand, in order to preserve it in his memory and for future Pensieve viewing. Finally, Dumbledore suggested cleaving it in half, and Harry did so. As each artifact was destroyed, we seemed to hear the faintest sound of a keening wail, as if each object were really dying in some way.

This left only the locket, which proved to be rather problematic, as the tip of the Sword would not penetrate the casing; neither could Harry cut it in two with the Sword's edge. Dumbledore, Snape and Flitwick all attempted to magically open it, but it resisted all of their efforts. I remained silent, hoping Harry would eventually realize that he would have to use Parseltongue, just as he did to find the Chamber of Secrets, but he merely glared at the item in frustrated loathing. I suspected he was so focused on destroying the Horcruxes and Voldemort that he was not thinking as creatively as he should. It also bothered me that Dumbledore had not suggested it to Harry yet; he was perhaps distracted as well. It may have occurred to him, as it had to me, that all three of the Deathly Hallows were in McGonagall's office at this very moment: Harry's Invisibility Cloak, left here when Harry and I went to the Room of Requirement, draped over the side of a chair; the Elder Wand, in Dumbledore's possession; and the Resurrection Stone, set in Marvolo Gaunt's ring and now cracked down the center, though that had not prevented it from working in the seventh canon novel.

Finally, tired of watching Harry and Dumbledore continue to try and prise the locket open, I spoke up. "Isn't that supposed to be Salazar Slytherin's locket?" I asked.

Harry looked up; he'd been trying to slide an edge of the Sword's blade between the sides of the locket. "Of course," he said, giving me a look suggesting he thought I'd taken leave of my senses. "So?"

"So," I went on, as if to a small child, "Didn't Slytherin speak Parseltongue?"

Harry didn't move for several seconds; then, he slapped himself on the side of his head. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!!" he said, with obvious chagrin. He put down the Sword and stared at the stylized S-emblem on the locket's front, a symbol resembling a snake. A hissing sound issued from his lips that I, understanding Parseltongue as well, heard as "_Open up_!"

The locket popped open, and there was a collective sigh in the room as the last barrier to the last undestroyed Horcrux was breached. Then Professor McGonagall, who was seated in one of the chintz chairs in her office, gasped and pointed at the locket. She was the first to see what the rest of us, standing around the desk and therefore above eye level, had missed: a malevolent eye stared out of one side of the open locket, the side she was facing directly towards. "Look!" she cried, pointing toward it. "That eye…"

There was in fact an eye behind each glass window of the locket — a pair of dark, handsome eyes, just as the young Tom Riddle's had been, before he turned them red and snakelike. They flicked about, taking in their new surroundings. Of all the Horcruxes in the canon novel, this had given the trio the most trouble; especially Ron Weasley, who'd been even more susceptible to its influence than the other two. But now it faced only an enraged Harry and its own doom.

"NO —!!" Riddle's voice hissed from the Horcrux, seeing Harry standing over him, Sword raised on high above it.

"Peekaboo," Harry said, grimly. "And _goodbye_, you bloody bastard." He plunged the Sword down into one side of the locket, then raised and plunged it into the other. Each time, there was a protracted scream, that seemed to linger in the air even after Harry pulled the Sword free of the locket's casing and dropped it on McGonagall's desk.

"And that's that," he said, looking at me. "Only one of Voldemort's Horcruxes left — the snake." Dumbledore and I looked at one another. In the canon novels, once Voldemort had Wormtail perform the restoration ritual using Harry's blood as part of the spell, Dumbledore believed Harry had been given the same protection from death that the Dark Lord had, so long as he did nothing to split his own soul, like killing Voldemort in anger during their duel. Harry had accomplished that; both he and Voldemort had ended up at "King's Cross," an intermediate point between the living world and what lies beyond it. Harry had appeared there more or less normal, just as he did on earth — Dumbledore came back from beyond, to explain the situation to him and comfort him; Voldemort, however, had appeared as a squalling, flayed infant, helpless and alone. Harry had accepted his fate, accepted that he must willingly go and be struck down by Voldemort, so that the last fragment of soul would be released and Voldemort would become mortal once again. It was only afterwards, in "King's Cross," that he learned that he had the choice to return to earth, if he wanted. He had returned.

Now, however, the situation was much different. All of Voldemort's Horcruxes were destroyed, except for the snake, Nagini, and Harry himself. Harry's avowed goal was the death of Voldemort for the murders of Hermione Granger and Dudley Dursley, as quickly as possible. I knew that Harry was distraught at Hermione's death, but I could not believe, knowing this version of him as well as I did, that he was capable of murder, even driven to it by the motivation of revenge, though he was still adamant about confronting Voldemort.

"_What is this_?!" Everyone turned to see Professor Snape standing before us, trembling with rage. In his hands was the book Harry had taken from the Room of Requirement, Advanced Potion-Making — the book belonging to the Half-Blood Prince — who was in fact Snape himself, though no one here knew that at this time. "_What is this book doing here_?" Snape hissed, holding it up for everyone, especially Harry, to see.

Harry gave him a calculating look. "Professor Monroe and I found that in the Room of Requirement, next to the Horcrux. Do you know something about it — or the Horcrux, Professor?" he asked, pointedly.

"You _dare_ accuse me of being in collusion with the Dark Lord, Potter?" Snape snarled, his voice seething with hatred toward Harry. "I have proven my loyalty, again and again, since before you were born!"

"Is that why you're so upset about me finding that book, then — because you've been _so_ loyal to Professor Dumbledore, and _so_ helpful to me these past four years," Harry sneered.

"And what would _you_ know about loyalty, boy?" Snape jabbed a finger accusingly toward him. "You could never decide who your friends were — first you and that Weasley boy, then your Muggle-turned-Slytherin-washout cousin and his obnoxious mother, then Miss Know-It-All Granger from Ravenclaw! All of them eventually dropped you when they saw how inconstant you were towards them!"

"Be careful," Harry said dangerously. "You don't want to insult Hermione in front of me, not now —"

"Or _what_?" Snape smirked. "Will you kill me, then, as you plan to kill the Dark Lord?"

"It's a tempting thought," Harry growled, and McGonagall and Flitwick both gasped. Even Sirius looked troubled by Harry's words.

"Harry," I said, warningly. "Now's not a good time to get into an argument with Professor Snape."

"It's not a good time for him to start insulting Hermione, either," Harry replied hotly. "I won't stand for it. If Snape wants a fight, I'll give him one he won't forget!"

"Learn to pick your battles, Potter," the Potions Master snapped, harshly. "You'll never defeat the Dark Lord if your attention is not completely focused on him."

Finally, if nothing else had, that taunt managed to penetrate into Harry's brain far enough to bring him back to the task at hand. "Fine," he said to Snape, "you've made your point. But after this is over, all have that book, and the note with it, or you and I will have words, Professor."

"I look forward to that moment," Snape replied, his voice icy.

Harry turned to Dumbledore. "Are we ready, Professor?"

Dumbledore, for once, however, seemed unprepared. "For what, Harry?"

"To go after Voldemort!" Harry said loudly. "Why else did we destroy all of his Horcruxes? We need to strike _now_, while he and his Death Eaters are unprepared for our attack!"

"Harry, we've had injuries," Dumbledore said, looking at McGonagall, who was still resting in a chair next to her desk. "I myself was nearly —" he stopped, looking at me "— gravely injured, but for the efforts of Professor Monroe."

"I'm not asking _you_ to fight Voldemort, sir!" Harry snapped. "I'll do it — I _want_ to do it!"

"It is madness," Snape declared, "to attempt to kill the Dark Lord in such an ill-conceived, muddily-planned manner, even if all of his Horcruxes were destroyed — which they aren't," he added, pointedly, glaring at Harry. "The snake still lives — we will have to destroy it before a duel has even a hope of succeeding."

"It _will_ succeed," I said, taking up Harry's side. "He's been training for years for this moment — I would put up Harry against anyone in this school, even Professor Flitwick, who's currently the best duelist in Hogwarts history!"

Snape appeared unconvinced. "That may be, Professor," he said, tartly, "but the fact stands — he would be foolish to beard the lion in his den, as it were, by bringing the battle to the Dark Lord without adequate preparation."

"Or," Harry pointed out, contrariwise, "it may be that _you_ don't want us going after Voldemort now, when he's weak and down to his last Horcrux."

"_Again_ with the ill-concealed accusations, Potter?" Snape sneered. "I can assure you, and everyone else here, that nothing would please me more than seeing the Dark Lord defeated."

"Good," I said, deciding it was time to get off the pot. I took out my wand and pointed it toward a shield on the wall of McGonagall's office. The shield flew down to me; I tapped it, saying "_Portus_," and the shield trembled for a moment, glowing blue as it did so.

"I've enchanted this shield to take bring us to Devon, outside Malfoy Manor," I said. "At the very least, Harry and I are going. We'll leave in thirty seconds from…now."

"It's about damn time!" Harry said, excitedly. He grabbed his Invisibility Cloak off the chair it had been draped over, stuffing it inside his robes, then walked over and placed his palm on the shield beside mine.

"You must be barking, Professor — both of you!" Sirius objected loudly. "Even _I _know you and Harry alone can't possibly succeed against Voldemort and his Death Eaters there!"

"Then we can use your help, Sirius," I said, earnestly. "And anyone else who wants to go along," I added, looking at the others.

Almost immediately, Professor Flitwick stepped forward. "Count me in," he piped in his high, squeaky voice.

"And me," McGonagall said, standing and stepping forward as well. "I think I owe them another go."

"Minerva!" Dumbledore looked surprised to see his deputy headmistress leap into the fray so willingly. "Are you quite sure you've recovered enough?"

"I'm fine, Albus," she said, a measure of irritation in her voice. "Are _you_ quite sure you're _not_ coming?"

"Of course I am," Dumbledore said, as if no other choice was possible. He reached over, taking something from his desk; then the five of us gathered around the shield, each person resting a palm on the cool metal as we waited for the Portkey to activate.

I looked at the last two men in the room who hadn't made up their minds. "Well, Sirius, Snape — are either of you two coming with us?"

Sirius looked indecisive for only the merest second, then laughed and placed a hand on the shield. "I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

My eyes flicked to Snape. "Well, Snape? Five seconds…" The shield flashed blue. Snape reached out, placing his hand on it.

"Against my better judgment," he sniffed. "I shall very likely regret —" his words were drowned out as with a _whoosh_ the Portkey activated, taking us in a whirlwind to Devon.

***

Moments later we appeared in a narrow lane, the seven of us. I had hoped that everyone would choose to come, giving us the advantage, however trivial it might seem, of having the most magically powerful number of combatants on our side. I did not expect many Death Eaters to have gathered at Malfoy Manor so soon after Dumbledore's return, but at least Malfoy himself, and probably Crabbe and Goyle, and a few others, who I wagered had been with Malfoy in the cemetery in Little Hangleton, would be there. How many others we might find there would be anyone's guess.

We left the shield on the side of the lane. There was a high hedge bordering one side, and a short distance away, a wide driveway. Dumbledore, Snape and I took the lead, with Harry directly behind us and Flitwick and McGonagall flanking him. Sirius brought up the rear, protecting our backs.

Barring our way was a pair of tall, majestic wrought-iron gates, forged to represent a stylized "M" — for Malfoy Manor, no doubt. Dumbledore regarded it for a moment before pointing his wand at it, muttering a phrase in a long-unused language that I nevertheless understood as, "_Suffer our entrance, O guardian of this domain, or be undone forever hence_!" The gates apparently believed him, as it immediately opened, allowing us entrance.

"Easier than I expected," Dumbledore said, pleasantly. "Well, let's see who's home, shall we?"

"He is here, Professor," Snape said, in a low voice. "I can sense the Dark Lord's presence inside."

"Can you tell who else is with him, then?" Sirius asked curtly, as we approached the front steps of the manor.

"There are wards preventing _Homenum Revelio_ from working," Flitwick squeaked. "None of my other detection spells are working, either!"

"That also works in our favor," I told everyone. "They will not know how many of us there are until they see us directly. Be prepared to use Shield Charms to repel jinxes and hexes, and to use solid objects to block Killing Curses."

We made our way to the steps of the manor without incident, but once inside, the large hallway, we found ourselves being watched by the portraits hanging along either side. "Intruders! Intruders!" one long-haired, pale-faced portrait cried out, then went silent as McGonagall hit it across the mouth with a Binding Hex. The other portraits quickly emptied, but the damage had been done; they were likely going to other pictures in the house, reporting our presence.

Further down the hallway, a large wooden door began to slowly open. Snape, seeing it first, pointed his wand toward it; Dumbledore and I watched as it swung completely open. "Come in, Potter," a voice I knew must be Voldemort's said, from inside the room. "We've been expecting you." There was an odd, trembling lilt to the words, as if the person speaking were shaking as he spoke.

I didn't like the sound of that. How would Voldemort have known to expect us unless he'd been informed ahead of time? I motioned for McGonagall, Flitwick and Sirius to draw near to us, and whispered, "Dumbledore, Snape and I will go in first. When I say 'Clear,' Harry, you come in behind us. Stay between us and the door until we see what the situation's like in there. Sirius, you and Professors McGonagall and Flitwick set up a rear perimeter of wards to guard our backs, then come in behind Harry when that's established. Ready?"

Everyone nodded. "Let's go!" I said, and we rushed into the room.

The Malfoy's drawing room was expansive, with a large fireplace beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece. The furniture of the room had been shoved aside, leaving the room mostly open space. In front of the fireplace stood several men, dressed in black and wearing masks — Death Eaters — and in their midst was a tall thin man, pale as a ghost, but with fiery red eyes that glowed with malicious cunning. Behind them, hanging in the air by an ankle, was a robed figure, its face obscured by the robes hanging from its body. Of the snake I saw no sign; Voldemort must be keeping it safe elsewhere, taking no chances on it being harmed — a pretty reasonable precaution if he realized it could be his last remaining Horcrux.

"So, Potter," the tall figure said, in that high, clear voice once again, still with that odd lilt. "You thought that you might press your advantage, did you, by coming here to try and kill me?" I could now place that lilt — it was rage, furious rage. Voldemort knew about the Horcruxes! He also knew (or guessed) Harry was here as well.

"Who are you holding as prisoner?" I asked, though I knew without even bothering to check.

"Who, indeed?" Voldemort replied. "You-Know-Who," he said in a mocking, almost singsong tone. "You allowed her to 'slip' through your fingers, to come here and _taunt_ me with the knowledge that I've guarded so zealously — didn't you? _Didn't you_?!"

He gestured with his wand, and the inverted figure moved in front of him. He twirled his wand and the figure rotated in mid-air, turning upright until the robes fell away from her face to reveal — Petunia Dursley. She was barely conscious, we could see — her face was battered and bruised; blood had run from a split lip and broken nose along the side of her face when she'd been hanging upside down.

"Tom," Dumbledore spoke for the first time since entering the room. "The woman has nothing to do with the battle between us. Her life, or death, will make no difference in the greater scheme of things. I implore you, let her go her way. It will do much to heal the damage your soul has endured."

"I'm _gratified_ you find so much interest in the well-being of my soul, Dumbledore," Voldemort said, mockingly. "You always were more interested in such things than was I. For now, however, I will release the woman if Harry Potter will agree to meet me in single combat, here and now! If you refuse, she will be killed immediately.

"Those are my terms, Potter. Take them or leave them, as you will!"

**A/N: The final chapter, "Deus Ex Machina," is scheduled for release by Christmas 2010. Just kidding...**


	13. Deus Ex Machina

**Ex Machina II**

**Chapter 13 – Deus Ex Machina**

"I accept!" Harry Potter strode into the Malfoy drawing room, his face flushing with anger when he saw the figure of Petunia Dursley, bound and beaten, floating near Voldemort. "Now, release her!" he demanded, sharply.

"Gladly," Voldemort sneered. He flicked his wand and Harry's aunt flew across the room, slamming into a far wall and crumpling to the floor. Professor Flitwick, the teacher closest to where she'd fallen, gasped in outrage and started toward her. One of the Death Eaters moved to intercept him.

"Wait," I said, and Flitwick halted. The Death Eater stopped as well, wand out and pointed toward us challengingly. Without moving I sent my sense of perception invisibly to Petunia, to determine her condition. She'd been tortured with several Cruciatus Curses — her physical injuries had occurred from thrashing around in agony as Voldemort cursed her. Without making any overt motions I fixed her broken nose and stopped the flow of blood from several gashes, and loosened the cords binding her arms to her sides; I would render further help when this confrontation was over.

"Clear a space in the middle of the room, for our duel," Voldemort ordered, and the Death Eaters formed a line along the far wall, while Sirius, the Hogwarts teachers and I faced them from the opposite side. Harry and Voldemort remained between us, facing one another, their wands both out and ready.

Though it had only been a few hours since Voldemort had been restored to his former vitality, he'd managed to gather a half-dozen Death Eaters to him here at Malfoy Manor — I could probably name them even without cheating and using my perception to look beneath their masks. One of the six who glared menacingly at us from across the room _must_ be Lucius Malfoy himself; probably the one who had positioned himself behind two larger Death Eaters. Those two would be Crabbe and Goyle. A Death Eater close to Voldemort was female, but that would not be Narcissa Malfoy, I decided — she was not in the Dark Lord's inner circle, despite her husband being there. There were two others I didn't immediately recognize, though one might be Macnair — his large, rough hands resembled those of the Ministry executioner, whom I'd seen at Hogwarts when he'd come to terminate Buckbeak, Hagrid's hippogriff, after Lucius Malfoy had manipulated an incident involving his son Draco and Buckbeak into a political struggle with Dumbledore for the creature's very life.

Harry's eyes, like mine, were also questing about the room, searching for possible locations for Voldemort's last Horcrux, the snake Nagini. Until it was destroyed Voldemort could not be permanently killed. Voldemort had noticed this as well; as Harry glanced about he was chuckling smugly. "Looking for something, Harry Potter? I suppose you're wondering where my little friend Nagini is?"  
The Death Eaters lining the far wall laughed behind their masks. "My followers wondered whether you would be foolish enough to take the bait," Voldemort said, explaining their merriment. "Some of them believed you would be foolish enough to come here so soon after my return, thinking me too weak and poorly protected to defend myself." Voldemort smiled cruelly. "Even your aunt seemed to think you would not be brave enough to attempt to fight me here, even if you managed to somehow locate my — trophies," Voldemort carefully avoided the word _Horcrux_, even among his most trusted underlings.

"And now," Voldemort said, raising his wand. "Shall we begin?"

"Wait!" Harry said quickly. He glanced at me, unsure what to do. I knew that he wanted, more than anything else in the world at that moment, to fight Voldemort and kill him, but he also knew it would be impossible if a Horcrux still existed, binding the Dark Lord to the living world.

What Harry didn't know was that there were _two_ Horcruxes still in existence — _and that he was one of them_. Neither Dumbledore nor I had yet divulged that bit of information to him, important as it was. The spell I had used to locate Voldemort's other Horcruxes required using one of them, or the person who had created the Horcrux him- or herself. Dumbledore and I had led Harry to believe that because of his unusual sensitivity to Voldemort's thoughts, he would be able to stand in the Dark Lord's place, but the truth was that his scar held a fragment of Voldemort's soul. This fragment had spalled off of Voldemort when the Killing Curse had rebounded from Harry back to him, destroying his body.

That body had been restored by a Dark spell cast in the Little Hangleton cemetery using a bone from his father's grave, some flesh of a faithful servant (Dudley Dursley, who evidently been turned to him by a lust for power), and blood from an enemy (Harry) mixed into a potion in a large stone cauldron, Voldemort now looked malevolently at Harry, his red eyes glowing ominously in the dimness of the dying light in the large fireplace behind him. "No more waiting, Potter!" He showed Harry a feral grin, his teeth nearly as long as a vampire's fangs. "But perhaps you need a further incentive to fight me?" Voldemort pointed his wand toward the floor in front of him, and in a whirlwind of sparkling lights there suddenly appeared — a large green snake. He had summoned Nagini!

"My pride and joy," Voldemort said, tauntingly, as the snake looked around and, sensing Harry, lifted its head threateningly into the air, staring at Harry, who watched it unblinkingly as well. "Do you think you could best it a fair fight, Harry Potter?" the Dark Lord asked, his tone mocking. "Arms and legs and teeth against fangs and coiled muscles that can bend steel? Would you rather face her, or me?"

"My lord!" One of the Death Eaters near him cried. It was a female voice that came from behind the mask, and I easily recognized its owner — Bellatrix Lestrange, who until earlier that day had, along with her husband Rodolphus, been imprisoned in Azkaban Prison, where Professors McGonagall and Snape had gone in order to get bits of their hair in order to impersonate them at Gringotts Wizarding Bank and retrieve one the of the Horcruxes from the Lestrange vault, Helga Hufflepuff's Cup. Why she was here, instead of there, might explain how the goblins had discovered Snape and McGonagall's deception, and attacked them.

"Why even bother playing with the Potter whelp?" she said, her voice dripping contempt as she spoke Harry's name. "Let us destroy them all for you!"

"Patience, Bella," Voldemort replied, and woman swelled visibly at the mention of her name — she reached up, ripping off her mask, showing us a face nearly glowing with ecstasy at his acknowledgement. "You will yet have your pleasure," he said, without glancing at her, "once I've had mine."

At that moment of distraction Harry moved, slashing his wand at the snake. He'd said nothing, but I knew from the gesture that he had cast _Sectumsempra_ at the reptile. A thin red line formed across the snake's underside where it was lifted above the floor, but it disappeared almost immediately. Harry repeated the gesture, with the same result. The snake was immune to cutting spells, then.

Harry glanced over at Dumbledore, then me. _I need the Sword of Gryffindor_! he thought at me with the advanced Leglimency we used to communicate silently with one another. The last I'd remembered, Harry had dropped it onto McGonagall's desk after destroying the locket Horcrux. As far as I knew it was still there. How could we have forgotten the damned Sword of Gryffindor?!

Voldemort laughed. "I know what you're thinking," he said, triumph in his voice. "You need the Sword of Gryffindor in order to kill the snake, don't you? It is capable of destroying Horcruxes, now that it has tasted the venom of the Basilisk."  
"How do you know that?" Harry snapped angrily.

"Your little cousin was a wealth of knowledge, Harry Potter," the Dark Lord said, silkily. "And he was holding in a vast amount of anger toward you. I simply allowed him to express some of that anger."

"You used him," Harry said, in a low voice, filled with anger, watching both Voldemort and the swaying head of Nagini in front of him. "Then when he was no longer any use to you, you murdered him!"

"And the girl, too, Harry, don't forget her," Voldemort taunted him, and if possible Harry became even more enraged by this callous reference to the person he'd loved more than anyone else. "In any event, I made sure the protection spells on Malfoy Manor included detectors for any object containing or endowed with Basilisk venom. When you appeared, no such object was present on you or any of the other members in your little band of interlopers."

I glanced over at Dumbledore, angered that he had not brought the Sword with him, though he had taken the trouble to get it from his office. He just stood there watching Harry and Voldemort, in his old robes of deep blue, a gray cloak thrown quickly around his shoulders and an old, battered wizard's hat on his head, tattered and even torn in a few places. I should be angry at myself, too, for not reminding him to grab the Sword — but if Dumbledore had thought to throw on a _hat_ —!

"Now, Potter," Voldemort turned toward Harry once again, his wand poised for attack, "it is time to conclude our verbal dueling and begin the actual battle." Harry, seeing no other choice, nodded grimly and took up a defensive stance. The snake, still between him and the Dark Lord, hissed ominously at Harry as it swayed back and forth.

"Before you begin," Dumbledore interjected suddenly. "I should like to throw my hat into the ring, as it were." He took a step forward.

"Stop!" Voldemort said, holding out a skeletal-like hand to halt the Hogwarts headmaster's approach. "I will deal with you afterwards, old man."

"I do not think so, Tom," Dumbledore said, but he did not continue forward. "However, I wish Harry to know that loyal Gryffindors' requests for help will always be answered." He leaned forward in a bow toward Voldemort. _What the hell was he doing_? I wondered.

But as Dumbledore straightened up he shouted, "Catch, Harry!" and with his right hand seized the wizard's hat on his head by the brim, throwing it toward Harry like a Fanged Frisbee. "You'll find what you need inside!" It spun through the air toward Harry, and I saw the other teachers gape in astonishment, as did Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Had the old man gone mental?

But, no. As the hat reached him Harry stuck his hand up inside it, then flung his arm back, and forward. The hat spun away, flying toward me, and as I caught it I realized it was the Sorting Hat, and from within it Harry had drawn the Sword of Gryffindor!

In a single fluid motion his arm spun around, the tip of the Sword arcing toward Nagini's neck, but with a lightning-quick motion of Voldemort's wand, a round, starry cage glinted suddenly about the snake, protecting it. There was a clang of metal as the Sword was deflected by the cage, preventing Harry from destroying the final Horcrux.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Voldemort riposted, and the Sword of Gryffindor leaped from Harry's grasp, clattering to the floor and skidding across the room. Just as quickly as he'd lost the Sword, however, Harry's wand was back in his hand. With another wave of his wand, Voldemort moved the sparkling cage containing his snake through the air toward his Death Eaters, out of the dueling area.

There were groans on our side — Harry had come _so close_ to killing the snake! "_Now_ what?" I heard McGonagall whisper to Dumbledore. "What can we do now?"

Dumbledore glanced at me. "Now, we must trust Harry, Minerva," he whispered back to McGonagall.

Harry and Voldemort began to duel, the relative smallness of the drawing room making it dangerous for everyone there, as deflected spells had to be dodged or blocked by the onlookers as well as the combatants. It was immediately obvious Harry's training had not been in vain, as he easily blocked several Blasting and Cutting Curses hurled by Voldemort, countering with an assortment of Impediment Jinxes, Binding Charms, Leg-Lockers, even an Attacking Charm that caused a small table to leap toward Voldemort until the Dark Lord Vanished it.

The Death Eaters began casting spells as well, though not at Harry but at us across the room, trying to catch us unawares as we watched the battle between Harry and Voldemort. Bellatrix was easily the most vicious — she showed callous disregard for everyone except her master, casting lethal and maiming spells like the Blasting Curse, the Entrail-Expelling Charm, and the Scalping Hex across the room at us, particularly at Dumbledore and McGonagall, who were almost directly across from her. Less than a minute into the duel, the room itself was beginning to show serious damage, with broken and blasted walls, shattered furniture, and smoke obscuring everyone's vision.

My primary concern during the battle was Harry — he was holding up well against Voldemort, whom I could see was becoming more and more enraged the longer the duel went on. He had evidently not expected Harry to last more than a few seconds in a head-to-head fight. He suddenly changed tactics and pointed his wand toward Sirius, who was deflecting a curse hurled by Bellatrix. Sirius suddenly turned his wand toward Harry and shot a Body-Bind Curse at him; I was close to Harry's godfather and realized what he was doing. I threw up a Shield Charm between them, deflecting the spell — it ricocheted and hit one of the large Death Eaters across the room, who promptly froze and fell over onto the floor.

Black next aimed his wand at me. He had clearly been Imperiused by Voldemort, but before he could utter a curse both Dumbledore and I hit him with Stunners, and Sirius went down, unconscious. At the same moment a Stunner came my way, hurled by Malfoy (based on the sound of the voice yelling "_Stupefy_!") but it was blocked, ironically, by Snape.

"Fight _me_, damn you!" Harry yelled, throwing a Blasting Curse of his own toward Voldemort, though he aimed at the floor next to him rather than at the Dark Lord's body. A green shield appeared between Voldemort and the blast, protecting him from the brunt of the explosion, though he staggered sideways from its force.

Then, it happened. Voldemort's wand whipped around as he caught himself from falling, and a bolt of green energy shot from its tip, even as Harry aimed his own wand toward a broken piece of furniture lying on the floor, and it zoomed to intercept the bolt. It missed by millimeters, and the bolt slammed into Harry's chest, knocking him over onto his back, where he lay still.

Harry Potter was dead.

McGonagall cried out, a wail of despair, and several of the Death Eaters cheered, but both sounds were short-lived as another _thud_ suddenly drew their attention back to the center of the room — Lord Voldemort had fallen to the floor as well. "MASTER!" Bellatrix screamed, leaping toward her fallen lord, and both groups of wizards converged over their fallen comrades. There were several loud BANGS as Voldemort's protection spells and wards on and around the manor suddenly ended, and the starry sphere surrounding Nagini disappeared with a _pop_. Hissing angrily, the snake slithered away into the darkness. At the moment, however, all of our thoughts were on Harry.

Professor McGonagall, though the last to reach Harry's side, knelt down next to him, touching his face tenderly. "I can't — I can't believe it," she said, tears flowing down her cheeks, as she looked up at Dumbledore in shock. "I can't believe he's actually dead!"

"It was inevitable," Snape said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. "Potter could not have prevailed against the Dark Lord —"

"Quiet, Severus!" McGonagall hissed, incensed by the Potions Master's callousness. "At least he tried — that's more than we can say for _you_!"

"_I_ did not have a prophecy foretelling my role in upsetting the Dark Lord's plans," Snape reminded her, coldly. He looked at Dumbledore. "I have done _everything_ you've asked of me, Professor — have I not?"

"You have, Severus," Dumbledore agreed, quietly. "I only wish it could have been enough to prevent — this." His eyes found me next. "James, is there anything you can do for Harry?"

"What can _he_ do?" McGonagall looked up again, her eyes wild. "D'you think Professor Monroe can raise the _dead_, Albus?!"

I had glanced over to the crowd of Death Eaters gathered around the fallen form of their master. "Watch them," I said to Flitwick and Dumbledore. "Especially that Bellatrix Lestrange. She may become unhinged if she thinks Voldemort is really dead."

"But what happened to him?" Flitwick squeaked. "Why did he fall after killing Harry? Was it like what happened between them, the first time?"

"I don't think so," I said, looking at Dumbledore. "But they _are_ joined in some way, I'm sure of that."

"How?" Snape asked, staring at me coolly. He believed I was merely guessing, making up _ad hoc_ hypotheses about what had happened.

"No time to explain," I said shortly. I knelt down next to Harry opposite of McGonagall, placing my right hand on his forehead.

"What are you doing?" McGonagall demanded. "He's _dead_, Professor — you're not goin' t' bring him back with magic —"

"Let him be, Minerva," Dumbledore said, placing a long-fingered hand gently on her shoulder. "He knows what he's doing." McGonagall reached up, covering his hand with hers, and looked away, more tears streaming down her face.

I nodded an acknowledgement to Dumbledore; then, taking a deep breath, I let my perception shift inwards, moving towards Harry's mind. As I had done in the past, I searched for a silver thread linking him from this world to the next. I quickly sorted through all of his thoughts of the last few hours, expecting to find the thread linked to an image of Hermione, the primary reason he'd been so set on revenge against Voldemort, but none of his thoughts of her were holding him here.

At last I came upon the thread, attached to a murky, clouded image of his mother and father. Not exactly what I had expected, but I followed it toward the realm between the material universes and "Beyond," the place where souls from the Harry Potter realities found themselves after physical death. The thread led me, not toward a white room, as I had seen before, but a gray, misty space, otherwise featureless, where I found Harry standing motionless, contemplating the void about him.

He was naked, but that didn't seem to register with him until he saw me standing nearby. Even then he didn't move to cover himself up; instead, a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt suddenly appeared over his body — a pair of socks and trainers covered his feet a moment later. He regarded me passively for several moments before finally saying, in a subdued voice, "Hello, Uncle Jimmy."

"Hello, Harry," I greeted him. Neither of us spoke again immediately; after a time that might have been seconds, or hours, I heard a muted wail, as if a wind were blowing through a creaky tree branch in the distance. I listened more carefully, wondering why I hadn't heard it before — had it just started?

"You hear it, too," Harry said, seeing my expression.

I nodded. "What is it?" I said, though I realized as I asked the question who it must be — who else was there with us.

"I don't know," Harry said. He didn't appear concerned by it. He didn't really appear concerned about anything, I saw. He was merely looking around, trying to understand where he was and what he was doing there.

"Do you know what this place is, Professor?" he finally asked me.

I nodded again. "It's — well, it's sort of a way station, between life and death," I said. Harry nodded as well, as if that made sense to him.

"I wondered," he said. The wailing that we'd heard earlier was growing louder, but Harry paid it no mind. "Does this mean that I'm — dead?"

"Well — technically, yes," I said, not really wanting to admit that. "But this is something of a decision point for you," I added quickly.

Harry raised an eyebrow at me. His eyes, still a brilliant green, were no longer framed in glasses. The scar on his forehead was gone as well. "A decision point?" he repeated. "I don't know if I understand, Professor. Dead is dead, isn't it?"

"Yes, but there are extenuating circumstances."

"To being _dead_?" Harry smiled at that, the first real emotion he'd shown since I joined him here. "That's pretty funny, sir! What kind of decision do I have to make, d'you reckon?"

"Well, to going on or coming back to the living," I pointed out. Harry nodded, as if that seemed reasonable as well, then pointed off into the mist before him.

"Hermione is there, isn't she?" he asked. "And my parents as well?" He gave a small shrug. "Why would I want to return to a world where the people I love most are no longer alive?"

I didn't want to answer that honestly. But there was another answer. "There are still people living who love you, Harry. They don't want to see you go so soon."

He didn't respond, but only looked off into the mist. Suddenly he pointed again, this time to a darker spot in the roiling grayness surrounding us. "What is that?" he asked.

I looked. It was a small child, wrapped in dirty, black rags. The child was red and scabrous; it bawled almost mechanically, wail after wail torn from its twisted little mouth. "That's Voldemort," I said. "He fell when you did."

"Huh," Harry said, almost indifferent. "I guess we're even, then." He looked at me again. "So, what is it you want of me, Professor? What do you want me to do?"

"Do you want to come back with me, to be with the living again?"  
"I don't know," Harry said.

"Well," I continued, with a touch of impatience. "Do you want to go onward and see Hermione and your parents?"

Harry looked into the distance. "I don't know that, either."

"So what _do_ you want?"

Harry didn't move for what seemed a long time. Perhaps my impatience was getting the better of me; it had seemed obvious, up until I arrived here, that Harry would want to return once I found him. I didn't know why he was hesitating.

"Voldemort beat me, didn't he?" Harry said unexpectedly. "He won."

"What? No!" I denied. "He beat himself, Harry, when he had Dudley use your blood in the spell to restore his body. He linked your bodies, and when the Killing Curse hit you this time it tore both of you loose, not just you.

"But the snake still lives, Harry," I said, urgently, trying to get him to make a decision. "The bit of Voldemort's soul that was in you is gone now, but —"

"The _what_?" Harry gasped. "A bit of his _soul_? There was some of his soul — in _me_?" The furious glare he gave me was as hard as any I'd ever felt from him. "Are you saying, I was a _Horcrux_?"

Damn it! I had spoken without thinking! "Yes," I said at last, wishing I could choke back my hasty words — but there was no way to deny what I'd said, especially here.

"That's why you used me in that spell you cast, to find Voldemort's other Horcruxes," Harry said, accusingly. "Because I was one, too?"

"Yes," I said again. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Harry."

Harry shrugged, though he was still angry. "Just as well," he said. "There's no telling how I might've reacted, if I'd still been alive when you told me I had to die to make Voldemort mortal again."

"You might still have fought him," I said, "but in a suicide attack instead of beating him."

"How do you know I wasn't attacking Voldemort that way just now?" Harry asked, pointedly.

That question jolted me, but I didn't hesitate in my response. "I don't, but that's not the type of person you are, Harry."

"_I'm _not even sure what kind of person I am," Harry snorted. "The kind that studies magic for years and years and _still_ can't beat the bad guy. Voldemort _won_."

"He _didn't_ win!" I insisted. I pointed toward the horrible infant half-obscured by mist. "That's him bawling his brains — well, his _soul_ — out over there! He's in the same situation right now that _you_ are, Harry!"

"Bet he's not," Harry disagreed. "D'you think there's anyone waiting for him, beyond this life?"

I was silent, but only for a moment. "His mother is there, waiting for him," I pointed out. "Her name is Merope. She died giving birth to him. She must be waiting for him."

"D'you think she'll be proud of him, once he gets there?" Harry pressed.

"I don't know — do you think you're mother will be proud of you for giving up now?" I shot back.

Harry blanched, shocked by what I'd said. "You bastard," he hissed. "Leave my mother out of this!"

"Then what about Hermione?" I asked. "What do you think she'll think if you show up now? What do you think she's going to say about you not wanting to finish what you started?"

"I didn't start this!" Harry shouted. "Voldemort did! HE'S THE ONE WHO TRIED TO KILL ME IN THE FIRST BLOODY PLACE!"

"I know," I said, without raising my voice. "And if you don't come back with me, he'll have succeeded, won't he?"

"Will he?" Harry asked, his voice normal once again, though the anger was still evident in it. "If I don't go back, what happens to him? If he refuses to go on, will he be stuck here?"

"I don't know," I said — I really didn't know what would happen to Voldemort if Harry went onward instead of returning to the living. "But you're going to have to decide, one way or the other."

"What will you do if I go on, and Voldemort returns to the living?" Harry wanted to know.

I didn't answer right away. After all these years of knowing him, watching him learn and grow and prepare himself for this moment, I didn't want Harry to leave life without really being able to live it. He'd spent most of his life in Voldemort's shadow, one way or another. He deserved better. But he had to decide what that was for himself.

"We can handle Voldemort, if that's what you want, Harry," I said. "You can go to Hermione and your parents, if that's what you want. I won't stop you."

Harry looked at me curiously. "How could you stop me?" he asked. "In fact —" he looked around, as if he'd suddenly realized where we were, and was thinking through the whole situation. "— in fact, how the bloody _hell_ are you even here, Professor? How could you have even followed me here?"

"Well, that's a bit — complicated," I said, vaguely.

"I'll just bet it is," Harry agreed, coldly. "Well, after we get back and sort out things with Voldemort, I hope you'll see fit to tell me how you managed to accomplish all this. Now, how do we go back?"

"I think," I said, slowly, "that you just make that decision."

"Then I'll see you there," Harry said, and vanished. I followed, moving back along the way I'd com, until at last I found myself kneeling over Harry's body once again, my hand on his forehead. I exhaled slowly, and as I finished Harry's eyes suddenly popped open.

"Merciful heavens!" McGonagall gasped, clutching at her heart. "He's back!" She looked up at me with an expression of mixed dread and awe. "What did you _do _to him, Professor?"

"Fantastic!" Flitwick breathed, seeing Harry alive once again.

"He wasn't really dead," I said, to keep them from believing I'd somehow resurrected him. "Listen, I think Voldemort is alive as well — their lives were linked together by Harry's blood. While Voldemort can't be killed, now neither can Harry!"

Across the room, the Death Eaters were excited as well. "He moves!" one of them shouted. "Our master lives!" I placed the voice as Macnair, one of the men I suspected was in his inner circle, and a mole inside the Ministry.

"My lord, are you alright?" I heard Bellatrix breathe in a voice almost certainly meant for Voldemort alone.

"Away from me, Bellatrix," we heard his high, clear voice say commandingly. "I require no assistance. Away, I said!"

"_Is he alive_?" I looked down. Harry had spoken, so softly that only I would have heard him. I nodded fractionally. "_Give me my wand_," Harry whispered, "_and let me stand and face him_."

McGonagall, who hadn't heard Harry speak to me, had stood and taken Dumbledore by the arm. "Albus, we must get Harry out of here before You-Know-Who attacks him again!"

But Dumbledore, who had witnessed Harry's return to life along with the others, was looking to me, waiting for some sort of signal or message. _It's Harry's decision_, I thought, looking directly into his eyes, making my Leglimency as clear as possible. _It will be up to him to face Voldemort or not_.

"We must leave that choice to Harry, Minerva," Dumbledore said, earning him a look of shocked surprise from both McGonagall and Flitwick.

"Headmaster!" Flitwick protested, "Harry's just come back from the dead! He's in no condition to fight!"

"That's hardly your decision, old man," a voice behind us said, and we turned to see Voldemort standing alone, his Death Eaters on either side of him. "Potter will face me again, and this time he will _not_ prevail!"

"We'll see about that," Harry said, standing and taking a defensive stance with his wand. The five of us moved off to one side again, gathering around Sirius's unconscious figure. "Are you sure this is what you want, Riddle?"

"You _dare_ to speak to me that way?!" Voldemort hissed. "Have you forgotten —?"

"Hardly," Harry cut over him with a harsh laugh. "I haven't forgotten a damned thing you've done to me in the past fourteen years — not since the day you murdered my parents, and tried to kill me. Not since you destroyed Professor Quirrell, or tried to possess Luna Lovegood, or killed my uncle Vernon or my cousin Dudley, or —" his voice broke, but after a moment he collected himself and went on "— or Hermione. No, I know everything you've done to me, Riddle."

"Then prepare yourself," Voldemort hissed, "for the final death, Potter — yours! _Avada Ked_—"

"_Expelliarmus_!" Harry's riposte was in the air even as the Killing Curse began to form on Voldemort's lips. The spell slammed into the yew and phoenix feather wand, not only throwing it into the air but shattering it to pieces. It fell to the floor before Voldemort, and he stared down at it in shock, then looked up to see Harry's holly wand pointed at his face.

"So it comes down to this, then," Harry said, his voice shaking. Every Death Eater standing with Voldemort stared at the tip of his wand in dread anticipation, waiting for the curse that would end their Dark Lord's life. The other teachers, Snape included, had pointed their wands at the Death Eaters as well; for any of them to move would invite a hex or jinx from one of our wands.

"You can't imagine how much I've wanted this moment," Harry said, looking into Voldemort's red, hate-filled eyes. "Ever since you killed Hermione, it's been the only thing I've thought about — the only thing I had left to do in this life. All I wanted was to have you in my wand's sights, so that I could kill you, Riddle.

"But — you beat me to it," Harry went on, his voice becoming softer, turning reflective. "Maybe it was just luck. Maybe you're the better duelist. I dunno. But you killed me first. You won.

"Only things didn't work out like _either_ of us expected, did they?" Harry's eyes flicked toward me for just a moment. "We both ended up in a place we didn't understand, didn't know how to deal with. But I realized, while I was there, that there must be more to life than simple vengeance, or even self-preservation, if we are to be true to ourselves."

"Silence, Potter!" Voldemort snapped. "Do what you must, but spare me your platitudes and endless drivel!"

"Drivel?" Harry looked disappointed. He lowered his wand, unexpectedly, and Dumbledore and I turned to each other in surprise. What was Harry up to? "No, I've just realized that you're not worth killing, Riddle — you're not worth ruining my soul over." He looked toward us. "Let's go, we're done here." The Death Eaters behind Voldemort looked at one another, dumbfounded.

"_Harry_," I thought at him, using Leglimency. "_Now is not the time to get noble about the lives of others, _especially_ Voldemort! He will still try to kill you if you let him live!_"

Harry's eyes were locked with mine. "_And I'll defend myself if he does, Professor. But don't tell me how I should conduct my life! Besides_," he glanced momentarily at Voldemort. "_There's something different about him, now_…"

"Harry?" Dumbledore was staring at him in shock. "I don't understand —"

"There's nothing to understand, sir," Harry shrugged, looking at his headmaster. "Voldemort's power is broken. He's no longer immortal — I can sense it, somehow." He began to move toward us.

"Broken? _Broken_?" Voldemort shouted. "I'll show you how broken my power is, boy!" His voice was nearly a shriek. "WAND!" One of the Death Eaters threw him a wand, and Voldemort spun, bringing it to bear on Harry. "_Avada Kedav_—" Harry whirled, preparing to defend himself from the spell. Bu Voldemort never finished it.

An object hurtled from the darkness at the far end of the room, hitting the Dark Lord in the chest with a _splat_ and dropping wetly to the floor. His spell spoiled, Voldemort staggered back, then looked down at his feet at the object that had hit him, and gasped.

It was the head of Nagini.

"That's the last one, isn't it?" A voice at the far end of the room spoke from the darkness. Footfalls padded softly across the wooden floor, then a slim form came into view — it was Petunia Dursley, we all saw. In her right hand was her wand. In her left, the Sword of Gryffindor. I could see the edge of the blade was stained with blood, bright red and fresh. "That's the last Horcrux, isn't it?"

"The last —?" Voldemort eyes flashed furiously. "_What have you done, woman_?!"

"Nothing, compared to what I'm about to do," Petunia replied, raising her wand. "_Avada Kedavra_!"

It was so unexpected, Voldemort barely had time to say, "What the f—" before the green light hit him and he fell to the floor, a lifeless husk.

"That's for Vernon and Dudley, you bastard!" Petunia shouted, as his body hit the floor.

"NOOO! YOU BITCH!" Bellatrix screamed, pointing her wand at Petunia. "_Imperio_!" Petunia's arm, holding the Sword of Gryffindor, suddenly shot forward, then back, ramming the blade into her stomach. Petunia gasped, staggering, and fell to the ground. At the same moment, Harry and Snape both aimed their wands at Bellatrix; her wand spun out of her hand, and a slash appeared across her chest and throat. She fell to the floor, her life's blood gushing from the deep cut, and within seconds she had bled out.

I moved faster than the eye could follow, catching Petunia just before she hit the floor, then lowering her gently. The blade had passed through her body, severing major arteries and her spinal cord. She would be dead in seconds unless I used my Power to save her. I removed the Sword from her body and set it aside.

Holding my hand over her breastbone, I healed her ruptured arteries, but she reached up, grabbing my wrist. "No," she gasped. "Let me go. I want to be with Dudley again."

"Petunia," I tried to reassure her. "He will be waiting for you, no matter how long it takes you to get there. You don't have to go now."

"No," she shook her head weakly. "N-never been happy with magic. It was what Diddy wanted, not me. All I wanted was for him to be happy. Let me — let me go to him now…"

I nodded and allowed her body to release her soul. I stood, sighing heavily, and returned to where the other Hogwarts teachers were rounding up the rest of the Death Eaters, all of whom had surrendered upon seeing both Voldemort and Bellatrix dead. Their wands were confiscated and they were all bound, including the one rendered unconscious earlier (it had been Crabbe) and removed to the main hallway of the house. Sirius was awakened and he, Flitwick, McGonagall and Snape stood guard over them, waiting for Ministry Aurors to arrive, while Harry, Dumbledore and I remained in the drawing room with the three bodies.

We stood over the lifeless form of Petunia Dursley, the only person there whose death I truly regretted. There was a tear in Harry's eye as he looked at her — I suppose he regretted her death as well. But when he turned to me, his face was flushed with anger.

"Did you hate her that much, Professor?" he asked me, his eyes flashing furiously.

"I — don't understand," I said, and I really didn't. What was Harry getting at?

"Did you hate my aunt so much that you'd let her die instead of saving her?" Harry said, baldly. "She's the one you _should_ have saved, not me!"

"I didn't hate her, Harry," I averred. "She asked me to let her go to Dudley, and I did."

Harry laughed, "Well, isn't that special?! And after all that talk about me coming back and my life being worth something — all that _crap_ that you fed me, then she says 'I want to go with Dudley' and you just give her a pass! _She's_ the one who defeated Voldemort, not me!"

"You did your part, too," I pointed out.

Harry snorted. "Oh, big effing part _I_ played, right! I let Voldemort kill me first, then walk away from him afterwards, and he almost does it _again_! The only thing that saved my arse this time was my aunt killing the snake and _then_ doing the Dark Lord for afters!"

"Harry, please," Dumbledore broke in, trying to be conciliatory, "Professor Monroe has been a great help these past few day — perhaps greater than you realize."

"Oh, I realize, Professor," Harry said, looking at me coldly. "He pulled me back, when I was all but ready to go on and leave this world behind, perhaps taking Voldemort with me! But nooooo!" he cried, looking at the body of his aunt once again. "I _had_ to come back and stop Voldemort! BUT I WOULDN'T DO IT — AND NOW MY AUNT'S _DEAD_!!" He covered his face with his hands and said no more, his body shaking with silent sobs.

"Harry…" I said, after several moments; my heart was filled with pain for all the losses he'd suffered in just the last few days, and over the years. "…I'm… sorry." I reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

But he twisted away, looking at me with an expression of deep loathing on his thin, tear-streaked face. "Sorry?! You're _sorry_?! D'you think a bloody 'I'm sorry, Harry' is going to fix this?! Dudley Dursley is dead. Petunia Dursley is _dead_. HERMIONE, DEAD! What the fuck good is 'sorry' going to do about THAT?!"

I stood stock-still, not knowing how to respond to Harry's anger. He was right — I had let my guard down, and both Hermione and Dudley had paid the price for my carelessness. I'd figured Barty Crouch, Jr. was the key linking Harry and Voldemort, but I hadn't counted on him turning Dudley to do the Dark Lord's bidding. I had run out of time, trying to sort out the details, and Harry and Hermione had been whisked away by Dudley, who'd become a human Portkey, and forced to be a part of Voldemort's return. Voldemort was dead, now, but so was Dudley and his mother — and Hermione, too. It was too late…

Wait a minute. _Too late?_ _Am I a Power or not_? I thought to myself. Is it _ever_ too late for a being who can bend time and space to his will? I reached out and took Harry's arm. He tried to twist away, but I did not let go.

"Get off me!" he snapped. "Damn you! Don't touch me!"

"Sorry, Harry, Professor," I said, taking Dumbledore's arm in my other hand. "We going somewhere." Before either of them could protest further I teleported the three of us to the infirmary at Hogwarts, next to the bed where the body Hermione Granger lay.

Her parents, Wendell and Monica Granger, were still there at her side, consoling each other in their grief. They looked up, startled, as we appeared. Seeing Harry, Mrs. Granger's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Harry," she said, standing and holding her arms out to Harry, who walked into them, embracing her. Wendell put his arms around both of them.

"Why are you here?" Monica asked, as she and Harry parted. She looked at us, trying to understand why we had come. Harry said nothing, but looked back at me as well, his face now devoid of any emotion in front of Hermione's parents.

"I brought them here," I said, "to help me make certain that Hermione is dead."

It sounded cruel, now that I'd said it aloud, and Monica covered her face with her hands, sobbing. Wendell looked at me and Dumbledore with an expression of indignant astonishment.

"How can you say something like that to us, Professor? My wife and I have been here with Hermione for _hours_. Her and that poor boy —" he pointed toward the body of Dudley Dursley, in a bed several rows over, covered with a sheet "— have been here all this time! How can you imagine they are _not_ dead?"

"I apologize for my insensitivity," I said, sincerely. "I suddenly realized there may be a chance she can be revived, and I did not want to waste any time." Dumbledore was giving me a look of wonderment, as if he was unsure whether to believe me or not; Harry, who had been looking longingly at Hermione, had not been paying attention. He suddenly caught up with what I was saying, and he reached out and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Are you saying she might still be _alive_, Professor? _You said she was dead_!" He pushed hard against me, but only propelled himself backwards, away from me. Dumbledore caught him by the shoulders, stopping him, and Harry pointed toward her, shouting at me. "If you can bring her back, then you BLOODY WELL BETTER DO IT!!"

Madam Pomfrey hurried into the room from her office, having heard our voices. "What's going on in here —?" She stopped, seeing Dumbledore standing with us, and looked at us curiously. "Headmaster?"

"It's all right, Poppy," Dumbledore assured her. "We just need to make a final determination on Miss Granger's condition."

"Condition?" Pomfrey said, confusion and annoyance in her voice. "I can tell you what her condition is, Headmaster —" but she stopped as Dumbledore raised a hand.

"Please, Poppy," he said, quietly. "It is necessary. James, will you continue, please?"

I nodded, glancing from Dumbledore to Harry. I had thought he would have been curious by now at the abilities I'd displayed in the past few hours, but so far only Dumbledore had seemed to gather that my powers exceeded those of magical ability. Given that I had instantly transported the three of us from Devon to Hogwarts, through the school's Anti-Apparition wards, I'd expected more from Harry. But perhaps he was still in a state of shock from the traumatic events he'd witnessed in the past few hours. I wondered how shocked he would be after seeing what I planned to do next.

Moving around to stand beside Hermione's body, I placed my fingertips on her forehead. In all the Harry Potter universes I had traveled to before this one, back when I was going through the ones where Harry failed to kill Lord Voldemort and ended up dead himself, and I engineered his defeat through other means, I had never bothered with "going back in time." My goal in those realities had never been to "make it not have happened," but to go forward from the point where Harry failed, finding a way to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. And I did not want to do that in this reality, either — the die had been cast, so to speak; I could not plan to go back and stop Hermione from being killed, exactly, not without causing a contradiction of reality, and that would be impossible — a reality is always consistent with itself.

But, if I could go back to a point before the moment when she stepped in front of Voldemort's Killing Curse, I could perhaps arrange the situation so that things were not as they had appeared, the first time we witnessed them.

As I placed my fingertips on her forehead, I sent my perception, not merely through space, but backwards through time as well, a motion allowed by the laws of this universe through the application of magic, just as Time Turners did. However, unlike a Time Turner my range was much greater in extent and precision. I went back to the moment and location in the Triwizard Tournament, back in the hedgerow maze, when I left Harry, Hermione and Dudley to find Ludo Bagman, who I did not realize then was really Barty Crouch, Jr.

This time, invisible and intangible to the three of them, I moved along with Hermione as she and Harry ran toward the Triwizard Cup gleaming ahead of them. Harry reached it a moment ahead of her, and gestured toward it with his wand as she approached.

"Grab it, Hermione!" he said, urgently. "I've checked, and it's not a Portkey! You've reached it first — take it!"

Hermione stopped in front of the plinth holding the cup, looking at it, seemingly mesmerized by the thought that she could touch it and win, but she held back. "No," she shook her head. "I want to wait for Professor Monroe — he helped me make it this far, I want him to be here, too!"

Dudley had come up behind them. "Go on, grab it, Hermione!" he urged her as well, as he moved around slowly, so he was between both of them. "Harry's checked it — the Cup's not a trap. Go on — you've earned it!" Hermione was still hesitating; she kept glancing back along the way they'd run up, looking for me. Dudley and Harry kept glancing that way as well, though for very different reasons — Harry was impatient for me to appear, while Dudley was probably fearful of it.

Hermione looked over at Harry. "Harry," she said softly. He turned to her. "I'm — I'm sorry I haven't spoken to you in so long. I was just so upset at what you did to Ron."

Harry looked down, shamefaced. "I know, I shouldn't have lost my temper with him. We probably should have just told him what everyone else already knew — that you and I were dating." Neither of them noticed Dudley's face begin to turn red, or his eyes harden with resolve.

"I know!" Hermione agreed, fervently. "I just thought it was so obvious…" As wrapped up as they both were, in the middle of reconciling with one another, they didn't notice Harry's cousin reach out a hand surreptitiously toward each of them. A moment before he touched them, I merged my perceptual-self with Hermione's physical form; I would now go where she went. Dudley's hand grasped her arm.

There was a sudden jerk, as if a hook had grabbed us just behind our belly buttons, pulling us forward, and amidst a whirl of spinning colors we spun into darkness. A moment later Hermione staggered as her feet hit uneven ground, and she fell sprawling. Harry had landed more sure-footedly, and was looking around, seeing where we were, when two masked men stepped out from behind a large monument, grabbing him and pinning his arms before he could draw his wand.

Hermione was immediately on her feet, but another man — a Death Eater — had come up behind her, pinning her arms to her side. "What are you doing?" she shouted, giving a small shriek of pain when the Death Eater twisted her arms behind her.

"Leave her alone!" Harry shouted. "Let me go!" He struggled against the two men, but they held his arms securely.

Dudley, meanwhile, had walked a short distance behind another monument, then returned a few moments later, levitating a large stone cauldron with a skill Harry and Hermione had not seen in him before — and neither had I. "Now you're going to see some magic," Dudley muttered, landing the cauldron a dozen feet from the two of them in a clearing between several gravestones. Had he been pretending, all this time, to be less adequate at magic than he really was?

"Dudley, what the hell are you doing?" Harry shouted angrily. Dudley didn't answer, but pointed his wand and floated a cord or so of firewood over to the cauldron, which arranged itself around the great stone pot then burst into flames. The fire, magically intensified, within a few moments had the contents of the cauldron steaming. I watched in silence through Hermione's eyes, wondering how I had not perceived the changes in Dudley that had brought him to this point — he must somehow be convinced that this was going to curry favor for him with Voldemort!

The contents of the cauldron were beginning to send out sparks and streamers of fiery particles. "It's ready," Dudley called, and a fourth Death Eater appeared, carrying a bundle of robes in his arms. The man, long blond hair streaming along behind his mask, moved to the edge of the cauldron, then began carefully unwrapping the contents of the robes in his hands.

"_Hurry, Lucius_!" I heard a small, cold voice say, through Hermione's ears, and the man's motions quickened. The last of the robes fell away, revealing the being within, and Harry let out a shout of disgust, while Hermione shrieked and turned her head. The being in the Death Eater's arms was the size of a small child, but no child ever looked so frightful! Hairless and scaled, small and red-raw, its face flat and snakelike, with red eyes, nearly glowing in the dim light provided only by the fire of the cauldron.

The Death Eater, almost certainly Lucius Malfoy, placed the being into the steaming liquid of the cauldron. We saw it sink, heard the soft thud as it settled against the bottom. The Death Eater looked at Dudley. "Proceed," he said, with Lucius Malfoy's voice, hollow-sounding from within the mask.

Dudley nodded, glancing toward Harry and Hermione to make sure they were watching, then raised his wand in the air. "_Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son_!"

There was a _crack _— a grave nearby had split open, and a trickle of powder was flowing from it into the cauldron, throwing up more sparks and steam. The contents of the cauldron turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue. Hermione glanced at the grave the powder had come from, reading the name TOM RIDDLE there upon it.

"Dudley!" Harry shouted. "Don't be an idiot! You're bringing Voldemort BACK TO LIFE!" One of the Death Eaters holding Harry reached up and cuffed him along the side of his head.

"Quiet, you!" he barked. "Don't say our master's name! You'll speak to him yourself soon enough!"

"Continue!" The Death Eater with Lucius Malfoy's voice shouted to Dudley, who had taken out a silver dagger and was standing before the cauldron, trembling. I felt Hermione's wonder at what he would do next, though I already knew what he must put into the cauldron for the second part of the spell.

"_Flesh of the servant, willingly given_," Dudley said, his voice shaking, "_you will revive your master_." He raised his left hand with the dagger high in the air, holding his right hand over the cauldron.

Hermione gasped, realizing what he was about to do, and turned away, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Dudley swung the knife, and it sliced through his wrist in one blow, his hand dropping into the sparking, bubbling brew as he shrieked in agony. The blueness of the potion's color turned to red as Hermione slowly opened her eyes again.

"Dudley!" Hermione gasped, seeing him holding his bleeding stump against his chest as he turned toward Harry. "Oh Dudley please stop this, please stop —" her voice cut off suddenly as the Death Eater holding her shifted his grip, putting a rough hand across her face. I had been passive to this point, merely watching events unfold, but I did not like this assault upon her person and dignity. I mentally pushed against the Death Eater's hand to remove it from Hermione's face. Nothing happened.

Startled, I tried again, with the same lack of effect. Then I realized — with my physical form almost a day in the future, it was going to take that long for any physical manifestation of my power to travel through space-time to this point! If I'd brought my body along… but of course I'd thought it simpler to send only my perceptions into the past. This was going to make it difficult for me to actually do anything here!

Meanwhile, Dudley had staggered over to where the two Death Eaters were holding Harry. The fourth one, Malfoy, joined them, pulling Harry's arm out and pusing back the sleeve of his robe, baring the limb.

"_Blood of the enemy_," Dudley recited, "_forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe_."

He slashed the dagger across Harry's forearm. Harry shouted at the pain and Hermione shrieked once again. Dropping the dagger, Dudley took a small glass vial from a robe pocket and pressed it against the wound, allowing Harry's blood to flow into it. When he'd collected enough he staggered back toward the cauldron, pouring the contents of the vial into it. Malfoy snorted contempt at Harry and let go of his arm, moving away and taking up a position between them and the cauldron.

The potion in it had become a brilliant white with the addition of Harry's blood. Hermione and Harry watched in horrid fascination as sparks began showering from the mouth of the cauldron. I focused my perception inside the cauldron, watching the metamorphosis of the Voldemort "larva," for lack of a better term, back into his old self.

I had often wondered how Voldemort was able to return to his "former" self, when it had been utterly destroyed, somehow, by the Killing Curse that had rebounded from Harry, but I had never taken the time to study his rejuvenation until now. His scaly, reptilian form had been my first clue — the snake, Nagini, slithering around in the underbrush of the graveyard, the second one.

Though I could not employ my Power, or even cast magic spells, with only my perceptual self thrust backwards in time, I was able to study both the snake and Voldemort's rudimentary form in detail. I now understood why Voldemort had chosen a _female_ snake — Nagini and Voldemort's larval form had very similar DNA structures. The only distinctions I could see were changes that had made him human in form, probably through magic. Other than a Y chromosome, there were no other major additions to the snake's DNA — it seemed Voldemort had forced it to give birth through parthenogenesis, then possessed the offspring. Nursed with a special potion of unicorn blood and Nagini's venom (an interesting combination), Voldemort's primitive form had gained strength over time, though who had helped him perform these acts in this universe remained a mystery — I was unable to probe Voldemort's thoughts while linked to Hermione.

The form inside the cauldron was growing in size as the shower of diamond-white sparks reached its maximum. I could see its shape becoming more and more human, though preternaturally thin, and finally the potion was gone, either absorbed into Voldemort's body during his growth or billowing away as steam. As the last of the steam evaporated, the now fully-recovered Voldemort rose slowly to his feet. The Death Eaters all watched in silent awe, as Harry and Hermione did in dread as he reached his full height, then glanced haughtily, even naked, at Malfoy's masked figure and said, coldly, "Robe me." Malfoy hurried forward, a black robe in hand, and draped it over Voldemort's form. He turned toward us, and Hermione looked up, terror in her thoughts, at his pale form, his eyes burning scarlet, and a cruel smile split his lips.

Lord Voldemort had risen again.

It was time for me to make myself known, if only to one person there. "_Hermione_," I said into her mind, letting her brain interpret the input as a whisper in her ear. She jerked but said nothing. "_Nod once if you can you hear me_."

She nodded. "_I'm going to get you out of this, so don't be afraid. You need to trust me. Nod once again if you understand_."

Hermione nodded again as she watched Voldemort step from the stone cauldron, helped by Malfoy, who handed him a wand I recognized as his own, the one of yew with the phoenix feather core, the twin of Harry's wand. It had been an open question what had happened to this wand when Voldemort was first defeated in 1981 until Peter Pettigrew admitted, under Veritaserum, that he entered the ruins of the house shortly after Hagrid left with Harry, finding the wand and hiding it somewhere before somehow becoming Percy Weasley's pet. With him sent to Azkaban and dead shortly thereafter, it was presumed lost — until now.

"Well, Harry Potter, we meet again — this time as equals," Voldemort had strode over to where Harry and Hermione were being held, smiling thinly at Harry as he struggled against the two Death Eaters who held him.

"You'll never be my equal, Voldemort," Harry growled, and Hermione shuddered in the Death Eaters arms at the mention of his name.

"I agree," Voldemort said coldly. "Though for a different reason than you mean, Harry. As long as you consort with Mudbloods and blood traitors, you will always be the weaker opponent — which I will prove, once and for all, when I kill you and end your meddling interference!

"The men who serve me," Voldemort went on, turning and walking a few steps away as he gestured at the Death Eaters gathered around them, "are of the purest blood. They understand what it means to serve someone who is truly their master, and who will properly guide them to serve greatness well. Even your benighted cousin," he added, with a careless wave toward Dudley, "who thwarted my plans to steal the Philosopher's Stone from Hogwarts three years ago, and who is less than a Mudblood — a Muggle who stole his magical powers — has repaid a tiny fraction of the huge debt of pain you owe me, Harry Potter, by agreeing to serve me and aid in my resurrection.

"And now, with your blood inside me, I am immune to the protection your mother's blood had given you until now." To prove his point, Voldemort's long-fingered hand suddenly shot out, roughly grasping Harry's face. Hermione screamed, though Harry made no sound as Voldemort turned his head from side to side, almost playfully, then released him and stepped away.

"Clear a space there," he said, motioning the Death Eaters to step back and given them room. "I think it is time that Harry and I finally meet each other in battle."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," Harry snapped, as the two Death Eaters pushed him forward into the open space they'd just vacated. One of the men who'd held him threw Harry's wand onto the ground before him. The Death Eater holding Hermione had not eased his grip on her, and I realized the critical moment was drawing closer. If I was capable of communicating with Hermione through her mental processes, I might be able to exercise control over biological functions as well — in effect possessing her. I had originally thought to simply stop the Killing Curse from hitting her, but that would not be possible in the present circumstances. I would have to find some other way to stop Voldemort's death bolt from reaching her.

Voldemort was forcing Harry through the formal dueling ritual — bowing to one another, then facing off, their wands raised high. Harry leaped right into the duel, immediately casting a Disarming Charm, hoping to catch Voldemort off-guard, but the Dark Lord casually cast a Shield, deflecting the spell harmlessly away. He immediately countered with the Cruciatus Curse, and Harry fell to the ground, screaming in agony.

Hermione nearly leaped out of the arms of the Death Eater holding her, and while I understood why she wanted to go to him, I did not want her hit with the Curse as well. I moved my perception into the Death Eater, taking over his motor controls, and held her tightly. Good! This told me it was possible to force someone to obey my will, and gave me an idea for how to handle the crucial moment when it came.

When Voldemort ended the curse, I allowed the Death Eater to relax his hold on Hermione, and she broke away, running to Harry's side. I had the man take out his wand and point it at Hermione, but Voldemort put up a hand forestalling any action. This left me in control of a Death Eater with his wand in his hand, just as I wanted him. As Voldemort mocked them and pronounced his intention to kill them both, I located a flattened piece of rock on the ground near them and while everyone was distracted, cast a Disillusionment Charm upon it, then levitated it along the ground so it was in front of Hermione, between her and Voldemort.

Dudley was arguing with Voldemort over Hermione's disposition, claiming she'd been promised to him. Harry's face betrayed a moment of shock at this — he'd apparently never realized just how obsessed Dudley was with Hermione. Truthfully, I'd never considered it much, either. But I could hardly let that distract me at the moment!

Harry had staggered to his feet, and I was out of time to warn Hermione what was about to happen. Voldemort pointed his wand and began to utter the curse, and several thing happened at the same time —

— Hermione stepped in front of Harry, shouting, "No! Harry, I —"

— I commandeered the Death Eater's body, levitating the Disillusioned rock into the air between her and Voldemort —

— The Killing Curse shot from the tip of Voldemort's wand, striking the invisible rock and blasting it to pieces. The concussion knocked Hermione down, making it appear the Killing Curse had struck her. I had the Death Eater cast an Obliviate Spell on himself, removing the last 30 seconds of his memory, then withdrew from his body and moved back into Hermione's, having her wandlessly cast a Bewitched Sleep Charm upon herself. Harry caught Hermione as she fell, cradling her in his arms, and Dudley attacked Voldemort.

Harry's mind had barely registered that Hermione had been hit by the Killing Curse right in front of him. "We've got to get you back, Hermione," he whispered in her ear, "Uncle Jimmy can fix you — he can fix almost anything, I've found. Hang on, 'Mione, hang on…"

A crushing weight descended on them — Dudley's body, dead from the Killing Curse Voldemort had just cast on him, had fallen backwards between them. Dudley's left hand brushed against Hermione's side; the stump of his right fell against Harry, and the Portkey Spell was activated again, sending the three (and myself) whirling back towards Hogwarts. I might have heard the beginning of a roar of fury from Voldemort, frustrated by the bad luck that had taken his intended victims from him.

Time was short as the three forms appeared at the entrance of the maze created on the Quidditch pitch for the third task. Hermione and Dudley both dropped limply onto the grass, while Harry hit and rolled several times, letting the grass absorb the impact. I had only moments to act.

"I" (my earlier self) would be appearing any moment, and because I believed Hermione dead when I examined her at that time, she would have to really appear dead, even to my senses, not merely in a bewitched sleep. I would really have to mask all mental activity in her brain, making it appear as if her soul had left her body except for a final thread, which would dissolve as "I" tried to follow it. I might have told myself what the future-I had done, but I decided to create as few causality-dependent inconsistencies as possible, even within myself. Taking control of Hermione's unconscious mental energies, I suppressed them even further, moving them temporarily into other areas of her nervous system. When I'd examined her before, I'd naturally gone through the memories in her brain, expecting to find them there — I had not thought to look elsewhere in her body.

I was now "playing dead" — keeping my own energy levels low, to mimic the effects of a body beginning to cool. I could not see, hear or otherwise perceive anything outside of Hermione's body. I could feel my earlier self's energies probing her brain, looking for any sign of life. The only thing to be found, however was the single thread I'd left for past-me to discover: Hermione's last thought, of Harry. My earlier self withdrew, reluctantly, having failed to find Hermione within her body. The hardest part was over.

At this point I could have simply allowed myself to move forward through time, rejoining my body several hours hence and continuing from there. But I did not want to abandon Hermione now, not after I'd "failed," at least in one sense, to keep my promise to her. I had asked her to trust me to get her out of this, but from her viewpoint Voldemort had hit her with the Killing Curse just before she blacked out. She would probably awaken believing she was dead. Which, in a sense would further the illusion that she had indeed died, but I was now piling deception on top of deception.

I stayed with her the entire time, watching as Flitwick escorted her and her parents to the infirmary. I watched as a grim-faced Madam Pomfrey examined her body, unsuccessfully fighting back tears as she searched in vain for the faintest sign of life. I watched as her mother and father sat next to her, crying and holding one another in their grief, wishing I could spare them the hours of heartbreak and misery they would feel, missing her.

Finally, hours later, Harry, Dumbledore and I suddenly appeared next to Hermione's parents, and I moved into position, placing my hand once again on Hermione's forehead. I felt my earlier self gather my energies and watched my perceptual self move into the past, leaving me alone with Hermione inside her skull. I flowed back into my own body, completing the loop, and exerted a miniscule portion of my Power, drawing Hermione out of her bewitched sleep. I took my hand away from her forehead — to everyone else there only a few seconds had elapsed.

"What did you do?" Harry demanded, looking at her still face. "Dammit, Professor, _tell_ me —"

Hermione's eyelids fluttered.

Harry gasped. "Oh my _god_," he said, looking at me in astonishment. Hermione's parents held each other tightly — Monica began to cry again, this time with joy. Hermione's chest rose slowly, her first full breath in several hours. Her eyes opened.

She sat bolt upright, one hand reaching out toward Harry. "Look out!" she said, her eyes wide. "Harry, I —" she stopped, looking around, seeing us and her parents. "I — I — don't understand. How — how did I get here? We were — in a graveyard…" she looked at Harry. "V-Voldemort tried to k-kill you, Harry!"

"I know," Harry said, sitting next to her on the bed. He embraced her, kissing her neck and cheek, not caring what any of us thought of his display of affection for her. But both of her parents were beaming at them, and Dumbledore had a small smile on his face; his eyes might have been a bit misty, as well. "Voldemort is gone now — he won't be able to harm you, or anyone, ever again."

Madam Pomfrey hurried over to us, astonishment on her face. "You're alive!" she said to Hermione, then turned to Dumbledore. "But — _how_?"

"I do not know how, Poppy," he told her, happily. "But I am glad to see her again, nonetheless. Welcome back, Hermione."

Hermione nodded, then looked up at me. I was staring at her. I knew she would remember nothing of the time she spent in bewitched sleep, but if she suspected anything about what had happened in the graveyard, she would remember only a whispered voice telling her to trust him, and nothing else. Would she think she imagined it? I wasn't going to change her perception of those events — whatever she decided had happened, she was back with Harry, alive again.

I turned to Dumbledore and said in a low voice, "I need to talk to you privately, Professor."

"Of course," Dumbledore replied in an equally soft voice. He made a small gesture toward the door. "Shall we?" I nodded. I doubt if anyone there even noticed us turn and move away.

We walked quietly from the infirmary back to Dumbledore's office. Once there, he gestured to a chair for me to sit in, then took the one next to it. "What did you want to discuss with me, James?" Dumbledore asked, once we were settled.

"I'm leaving Hogwarts," I said without preamble.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, regarding me silently for several moments. "I cannot say I am truly surprised," he finally replied, "given the things I've seen you do in just the past several hours, not to mention what I've observed over the past four years." He leaned forward in his chair, looking at me seriously. "But, would you care to explain to me your reasons for leaving, James?"

It was my turn to ponder silently for several seconds. Did Dumbledore deserve the whole truth from me? As closemouthed as the old man tended to be, he seldom lied without good cause, at least in his estimation. I could not say I did any better, really — I had as good as lied to Harry, Hermione and her parents in the performance I gave them just now. "The end justifies the means" was a glib phrase, but many used it to condone wrongful acts that benefited someone in some way — I was on that slippery slope myself, though it would be hard to find the wrong in returning Hermione Granger to her loved ones.

"I think," I said, measuring my words, "Harry has had enough help from me — now especially, since Voldemort is no longer in the picture. Anything else I do here might seem anticlimactic."

"There are still students to be taught," Dumbledore pointed out. "You have done an excellent job over the past three years. It will be difficult to replace you, James."

"I appreciate your saying so, Albus," I smiled. "I do have a replacement in mind, though — Remus Lupin would make an excellent teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"I quite agree," Dumbledore nodded. "However, there is a problem. As you well know, Lupin is a victim of lycanthropy. I believe he gave a quite stirring speech on his experiences here a few years ago, as one of your guest speakers. With the current climate concerning werewolves in the Wizarding world, I believe having him teach here would be out of the question."

I had in fact already considered that, and had an answer ready with me. From within one of the inner pockets of my robes I produced a small bound notebook, handing it to the headmaster. "That is a treatise I've been working on in my spare time," I told him, "about possible improvements to the Wolfsbane Potion that could be a cure to the condition." Dumbledore glanced up at me, interested. He opened the book, flipping through several pages.

"Quite fascination," he finally said. "I will give this to Severus, have him evaluate your conclusions, to see if he agrees with them. If this works, James, you will have provided a tremendous breakthrough for victims of lycanthropy everywhere."

I nodded. Truth to tell, I had always known of such a cure, and others like it for many maladies and conditions of the Wizarding world; but, I could not simply go around curing diseases and other problems willy-nilly without causing ripples and repercussions throughout the world, as tempting as it was to do. Another reason for me to leave this reality, I decided, before I inadvertently destabilized it so much it couldn't help but self-destruct.

"I do have a final question for you, before you leave," Dumbledore said, and I sensed a hesitation in him, a feeling of apprehension about what he was going to ask me. "I am grateful for the aid you rendered to Professor McGonagall, treating her injuries, and was most pleased and, I must admit, quite surprised at Miss Granger's nigh-miraculous recovery. Such ability in a wizard is quite rare — so rare, in fact, that I wonder if perhaps your abilities transcend the use of magic, James?"

I expected he'd figured that much out about me. "Yes, you're correct, Albus. I have other abilities beyond my wizarding skills. Professor McGonagall's injuries would have been mortal had any other person in the world, wizard or not, tried to help her. They were beyond any wizard's skill to cure quickly enough to save her life."

Dumbledore nodded, gravely. He'd seen that, as I had, when she and Snape had returned from Gringotts. And he had said nothing when I'd saved her, a situation where being the closemouthed person he was had kept my secret safe. "And Miss Granger?"

"Voldemort hit her with the Killing Curse," I said, flatly. "She was dead, as far as I or anyone else could tell."

For perhaps the first time since I'd known him, I saw amazement in Dumbledore's eyes. "If that is so, James, then you have done what no other person in history has accomplished — you have returned someone who was dead to life!"

"Not quite," I admitted. "I was able to send myself back in time, to before the confrontation between Harry and Voldemort in the Little Hangleton graveyard, and manipulate events to make it appear as if that occurred — the _Avada Kedavra_ did not strike her, and I was able to make it appear she was dead when her body was returned to the Tournament."

"And what of Dudley Dursley?"

I shrugged. "I might have saved him, too, but his mother had asked me to let her die, to be with him once again — I did not think I should deprive them of one another's company beyond this life, even for a little while."

"So you believe there is an existence beyond this one?" Dumbledore asked.

"I've been there," I said, as flat fact, and his eyes widened. "I thought you believed," I said, smiling.

"I do believe," the old man replied, "but until that moment we go onward, we do not actually know."

"You can trust me," I told him. "It definitely exists."

"So are you able to go there and bring people back?" Dumbledore asked, real curiosity in his voice. "Could you revive someone that way?"

"No," I shook my head. "I got there only once, by accident—and barely managed to find my way back to the living world."

"I would be interested in hearing the story," Dumbledore said. I could feel a sense of excitement beginning to well up in him. "I wonder at the fate of a creature like Voldemort, who quite literally shredded his soul trying to gain physical immortality — yet you, who must certainly possess it, seems as whole and as well-adjusted as an innocent child."

"It's a very long story, Albus," I replied. "But I can tell you, even Voldemort was there, in the Beyond, and there was hope for his soul — because someone there cared for him." I looked at the headmaster for a long moment, and an idea jelled in my mind. "Perhaps you should consider coming with me when I leave, Albus."

Dumbledore blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, Voldemort is dead," I pointed out. "You and Harry are pretty much out of a job on that front. That leaves you with teaching, which you don't do much of anymore, or trying to fix the mess the Ministry is currently bogged down in. And I don't think you want to get involved in _that_."

"So — what is it, exactly, you are proposing?" Dumbledore wanted to know.

"I propose that you accompany me in my travels. I can give you Powers similar to mine, that will let you move through the dimensions of space and time with the same ease you walk down a corridor at Hogwarts now, and the ability to manipulate matter and energy in ways that will make wizardry seem like a child's sleight-of-hand tricks."

Dumbledore was motionless for a long time, his eyes staring at me but actually looking inward as he contemplated my proposal. I could feel the intense curiosity that was driving him, along with his lifelong desire to learn as much as possible. Yet when he finally came back to the present, he shook his head. "Regrettably, James, though your offer is quite tempting, I must decline."

"Albus," I told him gently, "you don't need to be afraid of what might happen. I know about your dealings with Gellert Grindelwald and the 'greater good,' and your fear of abusing power."

If there was anything I could have said that would make Dumbledore lose his composure, it was that. "How could you know that?!" he asked anxiously. Then — "Ah, this 'power' of yours, it must work even through Occlumency. Is that how you found out, by looking inside my mind?"

I shook my head, smiling in spite of my attempt to suppress it. "Believe it or not, Albus — I read about you in a book."

Dumbledore looked confused. "A book? I do not understand. Very few living wizards recall all the details of that time, and none of them may speak of it — I have bound them with a Fidelius Charm, such was the shame I felt for my actions. They can only become known after my death, when the charm will be broken."

"That's how I found out about them," I said matter-of-factly. "I come from a time and place where, after you died, your life was written about in great and glaring detail, pointing out your past association and friendship with Grindelwald."

"I…see," Dumbledore murmured. "Well, I suppose I've always been aware of my mortality, but that does make it more real, hearing that for some, I've already died."

It was a misdirection on my part, but I didn't think even Dumbledore could deal with the actual facts of my origin — that where I'd come from, centuries ago and universes away — he was just a fictional character in a book.

There was a knock at the door of Dumbledore's office. "Come in," he said. The door opened slowly, and a moment later Harry poked his head in.

"May I come in, sirs?" he asked in a subdued tone.

"Of course, Harry — please do!" Dumbledore gestured for him to enter, and Harry slipped in with the air of a small boy who believes himself to be in trouble. He approached Dumbledore and me, nodding respectfully as he stopped in front of us.

"I wanted to thank you both, for Hermione's life," Harry said, quietly.

"How is she doing?" I asked.

"She's well, sir," Harry replied. "She was sure the Killing Curse had hit her, but when I checked with a detection spell, I found no evidence of it. Madam Pomfrey said there were some bruises on her chest, but they've been healed. Other than that she checked out fine." His eyes had gravitated to Dumbledore's, avoiding mine. "I — I wanted you to know how grateful her parents and I are…"

"You can thank Professor Monroe, Harry," Dumbledore told him. "He was responsible for returning her to health, not I." I smiled, and Harry nodded, then looked in my direction, though his eyes couldn't quite meet mine.

"Professor Monroe, I want to — to apologize to you —" he began.

"You don't need to apologize, Harry," I stopped him. "I understand you were very upset by what happened with Hermione, and you were under a lot of stress. And, I'm sorry I wasn't able to do for your aunt and cousin what I was able to do for Hermione."

"Believe me, sir, I'm _very_ grateful you decided to check her one last time!" Harry said feelingly. "I've been talking with her and her parents — we've decided to go on another trip this summer, to spend some time getting reacquainted — we lost time this past spring and want to make it up to each other."

"That sounds like a good idea," I told him. "I've had a similar idea myself — I've just told Professor Dumbledore that I'm leaving Hogwarts and going on an extended trip."

"Really?" Harry looked surprised but not disappointed. I got the impression that my decision to leave was good timing. "Will you need someone to look after your house while you're gone, sir?" he asked solicitously.

"Yes," I said, then considered. "In fact, before I leave, Harry, I'm transferring it into your name, so you can treat just like it's your own." I smiled at the look of complete surprise on Harry's face. I knew that I would never have need of that house again, but he and Hermione could spend the rest of their lives reading through all the books I had stored there.

"That's very generous of you, sir, but —"

"But nothing," I overrode his objection. "You'll get more use out of it than I will, from here on. It's in a very quiet neighborhood, I hear," I said, lowering my voice confidentially. Harry smiled. "Then, after your holiday with the Grangers, you'll have a new house to come home to. I hope you have a great trip."

"Thanks," Harry said, smiling at me. "Thanks, Uncle Jimmy." He took a tentative step toward me, his right hand out, but when I spread both arms wide he grinned and we shared a hug. After we parted, Harry added, "I suppose after all we've been through in the past four years, a getaway is a good idea for both of us."

"A very good idea," Dumbledore agreed, placing a hand gently on Harry's shoulder. "After just the things you've been through these past few days, Harry, some time alone for you and Miss Granger should be quite relaxing. In fact," he added, looking at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes, "I've been thinking of doing some traveling, myself."

I smiled.

**Author's Note: I know a lot of people hated seeing Hermione killed a few chapters ago, especially after she and Harry got together. Thanks to everyone who stuck with me until the end.**


End file.
